


The brighter sun and the easier lays

by Kt_fairy



Series: The brighter sun and the easier lays [1]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Boys Being Boys, Deaky is Deaky, Domestic Fluff, Drinking to Cope, Fluff and Smut, Friendship, Implied/ referenced depression, M/M, No Homophobia, Past Infidelity, Period Typical Attitudes, Pining, Porn With Plot, Premature Ejaculation, Protective Freddie, Rimming, Roger is trying, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, a lot of smoking, but not really, shoe kink?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-09-29 22:24:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17211950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kt_fairy/pseuds/Kt_fairy
Summary: Maybe the moralists were right, Roger mused, taking a drag of his cigarette as he watched John lean over the snooker table to pot the ball Brian was pointing at. Maybe blokes dressing more like women and women dressing more like blokes were blurring lines. That it was the long hair and the heels and the quiet demeanour that were doing it, nothing else.Maybe it was because they’d been locked away on this farm for weeks without a glimpse of a bird and he was just randy.Or maybe he just wanted to fuck the bass player.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **EDIT: I have a writing blog now. Hit me up[Here](https://pianowrites.tumblr.com/) if you want **

 

 

**-1975**

 

“Fuck!”

 

“Well that was a racket.”

 

“I know, I know. I said we’d come in on four but I must have only counted three...”

 

“Actu…”

 

“Try it again. Do you want Roger counting you in?”

 

“I…”

 

“I can count _darling_ , don’t be so bitchy!”

 

 Roger watched as John gave up trying to get a word in, shoulders slumping as he started fiddling with his bass. Roger knew what he was trying to say, that Brian had come in too soon - ignoring the rhythm section like he always did.

 

 Roger could speak up himself and get right into the middle of the argument, and Roger did enjoy a good argument, but…

 

 He twirled a drum stick through his fingers and tapped it against the edge of his snare drum, making sure to catch John’s eye when he glanced over his shoulder at him. Roger made a ‘go on’ motion, repeating the action with more enthusiasm when John just looked confused.

 

“I uh…” John started again, Roger tapping his drum a little harder so it cut through the bickering and dragged attention towards the back of the room. “I was keeping time with Roger. You came in too soon Bri.”

 

 Freddie gave John a smile of approval before putting his hands on his hips, the tilt of his head all smugness as he raised an eyebrow at Brian. “Do you want Roge counting _you_ in, darling?”

 

 That went ignored as Brian turned to John, “Thanks Deaky. And thanks Roger for letting me look like a prat.”

 

 Roger grinned, spinning his drumsticks between his fingers, “Welcome, Bri.”

 

 He made sure to catch John’s eye again and winked at him, hitting out a slightly obnoxious  _ba-dum-tish_  when he caught John’s shy smile.

 

 

* ***** *

 

 Roger didn’t mind the fact that the most complicated thing about him was his temper - he was a drummer after all. He liked cars, he liked to drink, he liked looking good, and he liked a good pair of legs in a well fitting pair of jeans.

  

 Freddie, in a fit of _Freddie_ -ness, had taken their shy and retiring bassist off to Kensington Market and brought him back looking far more on trend than Roger ever cared to be. Fashions came and went, s _tyle_ was what mattered. All the same, he couldn't say John didn't look dam  _good_ ; if his new jeans were tight, then the black satin flares were tighter. And the white ones even _tighter_ than that.

 

 John had caught more than just Roger's wandering eye while wearing them. Roger had seen the girls and the blokes hanging around after shows or on nights out trying (in vain, Roger thought smugly) to get John's attention. He didn't blame them, John's habit of dancing until four in the bloody morning had given him a pert arse and long, shapely legs that Freddie had ensured were shown off perfectly by his new threads.

 

 It was bad enough when John was up on the drum riser, hip cocked and tapping his foot to Roger’s beat. It was another thing entirely when he was slouching all over the bloody place while they tried to write an album.

 

 And _then_ there were the platforms he constantly wore. Which were a whole problem all on their own, frankly.

 

 Maybe the moralists were right, Roger mused, taking a drag of his cigarette as he watched John lean over the snooker table to pot the ball Bri was pointing at. Maybe blokes dressing more like women and women dressing more like blokes were blurring lines. That it was the long hair and the heels and the quiet demeanour that were doing it, nothing else.

 

 Maybe it was because they’d been locked away on this farm for weeks without a glimpse of a bird and he was getting randy.

 

 Or maybe he just wanted to fuck the bass player.

 

* ***** *

 

“Look what I’ve _gooot_ ,” Roger sang as he strolled into the living room where Freddie was trilling away on the piano, John sat on the floor next to him plonking out the beginnings of a bassline .

 

“Is it the clap?” Freddie asked, shooting John a quick smile when he burst out laughing.

 

“No, that was last week,” Roger leant on the door frame and span Paul’s car keys around his finger, “Mum left her keys on the kitchen table, let's sneak out.”

 

“ _Roger_ …”

 

“And where do you suggest we go in the _wilds_ of Wales?” Freddie asked archly even though he looked amused.

 

“Somewhere that’s not here. Come oooon, you must be so tired of these four buildings!”

 

“And the people in them?”

 

“Oh no, you’re all _delightful_ , Fred. A real joy to be around.”

 

 John sniggered at that, looking unrepentant when Freddie rolled his eyes at them both. “Unless you know of somewhere swinging in Newport or Gloucester - which I doubt \- then I’ll pass. I promised I’d do some writing with Brian, anyway.” Roger let out a noise of disgust, pulling a face when Freddie looked up at him, “Have you written anything yet?”

 

 Roger huffed, shoving his hands in his pockets as he straightened, “Might 'ave.”

 

 He’d written a few things, but he wasn’t about to set lyrics about him wanting to shag the bassist down in front of the band.

 

 He looked over at John, at his fingers wrapped around the neck of his bass, and was overcome by the same beer induced swell of boldness that had him swiping Paul’s keys “Hey Deaks, come with me?”

 

“Wha - oh. I don’t know Roge, I don’t fancy waiting around if you decide to give a girl ‘a lift home’ again.”

 

“That was one time!”

 

“We waited two hours!”

 

“Is that supposed to make me feel bad? Because it really doesn’t," Roger grinned.

 

 John plucked a note on his bass and tried to look unimpressed even as he fought down a smile. “Was it five minutes of shagging followed by you snoring for nearly an hour?” he said, the sparkle of mischief in his eyes having Roger hopping across the room to pretend to strangle him.

 

“Because of that you’ve got to come with me.”

 

“Get _off_!”

 

“You owe me a ride!”

 

“Fine, fine, fine. If you just get off me!”

 

 Roger straightened, raising his hands in triumph when he turned to Freddie. He caught the tail end of the look he was being given, as if Freddie was trying to work him out, and quickly turned to haul John to his feet.

 

 

* ***** *

 

“ _With my hand on your grease gun….Mmm, it's like a disease, son_?”

 

“Yeah. What do you think?”

 

“What do I...” Brian blinked down at the sheet of lyrics as John stumbled into the kitchen and headed straight for the coffee pot. “Roger, what do I think?”

 

“What?”

 

“What’s happened now?” John asked as he took a gulp of coffee.

 

 Brian waited for John to lower his mug before saying. “He’s written a song about fucking his car.”

 

 John raised his eyebrows and turned to Roger. “Your car?”

 

“It’s not about fucking my _car_!”

 

 Brian picked up the sheet and peered at it, “Oh no, you’re right. ‘ _Get a grip on my boy racer roll bar, Such a thrill when your radials squea_ l’ doesn’t imply that at all. Sorry Roge...”

 

 Further abuse of his work was cut off by John choking on his drink. He bend over to cough, trying to hide behind his hair but Roger could see his wide, surprised eyes and red ears.

 

“See! You’ve nearly shocked John to death! You alright there, Deaky?”

 

“Fine. I’m all right,” he croaked as he straightened, not looking at Roger as he moved around the counter to peer over Brian’s shoulder at the lyrics.

 

 

* ***** *

 

 He didn’t know how he managed it, sat in an un-glamourous car in the pitch black just off an country road in Wales. But here Roger was, half on top of John on the reclined passenger’s seat, a knee between his legs and a hand up his shirt, kissing him. John was kissing him back, obviously, but he had one hand moving over Roger’s back while the other was holding onto the door for grim death. Not very relaxed, but not quite thrumming with tension either.

 

“John,” Roger said softly, reaching out to try and pry his hand from the door. “You good, mate?”

 

“Mmhmm.”

 

“You sure?”

 

“Yeah. Uh...yeah,” he swallowed, eyes darting around the uninspiring interior of the car before looking up at Roger. “I’ve seen you looking. At me. And I didn’t know what to think.”

 

 Roger tucked his hand inside John’s jacket so he could smooth it down his side and curl his fingers over John’s narrow hip. He used that grip to settle in closer, licking into John's mouth as he ground his hips down against John until he groaned.

 

 The suspension creaked and the leather upholstery squeaked as Roger rocked against John until he finally grabbed onto him, calloused fingers digging into Roger’s bicep as John reached back to grip onto the headrest with his other hand. His t-shirt had ridden up with all this kissing and exposed his pale stomach to Roger fingers that trailed over the soft skin, sliding up over John’s chest as Roger pressed soft kisses slowly up his neck. “What do you think now?"

 

 John licked his lips as he blinked at Roger, breathing deeply before seeming to realise where they were. Roger froze, ready to scamper back over to the driver's seat if he reacted badly, but John just cleared his throat and said matter-of-factly. “That I’m not letting you fuck me in Paul’s car.”

 

 Roger had been looking to get off, of course, but he hadn’t been expecting to _fuck_ in the biblical sense. It caught him off guard, and he knew from the look on John’s face that it showed.

 

“Have I shocked Roger Taylor?” he grinned.

 

“I am...only shocked that you think Paul’s car is not the prime place to fuck.”

 

“He works for our manager!”

 

“He’s our gaoler.”

 

“If you say so.”

 

“I do,” Roger murmured, running the hand on John’s hip down to his knee and back up, trying to find the right angle to grab at his arse. “So where will you let me fuck you?”

 

 John shifted, a pained expression passing over his face a he looked up at Roger a little helplessly.

 

“Hey. Deaks. Don’t worry about it,” Roger said as he sat up. “I’ll drive us home and break into the drinks cabinet. Make a night of it.”

 

“Roge…” John muttered as Roger shifted back into the driver's seat, hand slowly slipping from his arm as if he didn’t want to let him go.

 

“Don’t ‘ _Roge_ ’ me in that voice. It’s fine Deaky,” he turned the key in the ignition and flicked on the lights. “We’ve still had a bigger night than the other two, hey?”

 

 John sat a moment before jacking his seat upright, Roger watching him out of the corner of his eye as he fixed his jacket and neatened his hair. He looked lovely in the half light, all pale and still with his hair curling at his flushed cheeks. Roger looked away with a cough, digging out his cigarettes and offering them to John even thought he knew he wouldn't take one. He lit one for himself all the same, taking two heavy puff's before sticking the car in reverse and setting off.

 

 

“Have you ever done it with a bloke before?”

 

 The car ride had been silent until Roger turned onto the lane that led to the farm, and the surprise of John speaking almost had him driving into the ditch next to the track.

 

“Not for want of other people trying. I am a known beauty you know,” he said with a wobble of his head, fluttering his eyes at John who studiously ignored him. “But no, I haven’t. Never felt like it really.”

 

 John went silent again until Roger parked the car at a purposefully awkward angle just so Paul would definitely know one of them took it.

 

“Until you got bored.”

 

“Hmm?”

 

“You never felt like it until you got bored.”

 

 Roger blew out a breath, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as he looked out at the farm house that was dark except for the light of Freddie’s room, “I pick fights with Bri and Fred when I’m bored. Or I muck about on your instruments…”

 

“What?”

 

“...I don’t shag ‘cause I’m bored. I do it cause I like it, and I like who I sleep with. They make me laugh or smell nice or they have good legs and a nice arse, you know." Roger tapped his feet on the floor and looked over at John. "I didn’t make you come with me just so I could try and get my leg over. We're mates, we have a good time. But if it happened...it happened, right?”

 

 John thought on that for a moment. “I don’t think I smell all that nice,” he finally said, which made Roger laugh.

 

 “You fall under ‘make me laugh’ and ‘good legs’. Nice arse too, if you don’t mind me saying.”

 

 John didn’t look like he knew what to do with that, peering out of the window at the house instead. “Looks like they’ll be talking for a while yet.”

 

“Yeah…” Roger thought of something and sniggered, laughing when John’s raised an eyebrow at him. “Would you let me fuck you in your basement?”

 

 John shoved at his shoulder but was very obviously trying not to laugh. “You shit.”

 

“I meant your room! What are you thinking of?”

 

“You utter _shit,_ Taylor!” John hissed, wholly failing at not laughing as he got out of the car.

 

 

* ***** *

 

“Look, I made you both breakfast. Can you at least try not to be arseholes?”

 

“We’re trying to be reasonable, Roge. ‘ _Told my girl I'll have to forget her, rather buy me a new carburetor_ ’ that rhyme is a biiit of a stretch? Don’t you think?”

 

“Because you’re writing stuff worthy of fucking Wordsworth?”

 

“He has a point,” John said, obviously enjoying this.

 

“ _You call me sweet like I’m some kind of cheese_?”

 

“That’s one line,” Brian huffed.

 

“So is that one about the carburettor!”

 

“Roger,” Brian said not too gently. “We’re trying to make an album. Not be known as that band that wants to commit...commit...”

 

“Autophilia,” John provided.

 

“...Autophilia!”

 

“It’s not that kind of love! See! ‘ _Cars don't talk back they're just four wheeled friends now_ ’!”

 

“Just friends. Like no-one’s ever said that about someone they’re sleeping with,” Brian muttered at his eggs, missing the shared look that passed over his head.

 

 

* ***** *

 

 John fell on to the rug with a thump, the startled look on his face dissolving into giggles as Roger tried to stifle a laugh.

 

“Shhh, sshh. Are you okay?”

 

 John nodded silently, pushing himself up on his elbows as he continued trying to get his trousers off over his boots. “Can I...I’ll just put my boots back on after I get these off.”

 

“Where’s the fun in that?” Roger said as he kicked his own jeans off, crouching down to help ease John’s feet out of the leg holes.

 

 Roger straightened once the trousers were off, chucking them on the floor as he looked over at John who was leaning back on his elbows, amusement bright in his eyes. “Not how I thought I’d be getting a sore bum.”

 

 Roger barked out a laugh, reaching out a hand to help John up off the floor. He staggered a little when he got on his feet, smiling when Roger held him by the waist to steady him. “Now you’re too tall,” Roger murmured, crowding John back until he bumped into the bed.

 

“Whose fault is that?”

 

 Roger walked his fingers down John’s back. “Mine,” he shrugged as he palmed at John’s arse and gave it a squeeze, “Easy enough to fix. How bendy are you?”

 

 A frown passed over John’s face, “I can bend over all right?”

 

 Roger grinned and shifted even closer, gripping John’s thighs as he kissed his jaw. “How will I see your heels?” he asked, all innocence, and tipped John back onto the bed.

 

 He went down with an ‘oof’ and a creak of protest from the bed as he bounced, the frame creaking again when Roger dropped down onto his elbows and kissed him. Roger tugged at his hair to make John open his mouth. Pulling again to drag his head back so Roger could kiss down his neck, setting the edge of his teeth to the curve of John's collarbone to leave faint pink marks on his smooth skin.

 

 John swallowed down a noise as Roger sucked a kiss to the dip at the base of his throat, hips twisting as his back arched in one smooth roll of his body. Roger scraped his teeth over the same spot to try and get him to moan out loud but John was already slipping a hand between them. His grip was unsure on Roger’s cock but not clumsy, hand larger and more rough than anyone else who’d touched Roger but he didn't mind it. It was John touching him, after all, and he was a quick learner. Roger was soon digging his fingers into John's thighs when he got the angle just right, moans being wrung out of him with a flick of John's wrist.

 

 Roger pressed his lips to his skin, dragging them across his chest to his nipple. Girls liked it when he sucked on their tits - a service Roger was more than happy to provide- and John reacted pretty much the same. He was whining and squirming under Roger in no time, his hand faltering and then losing its grip on Roger’s dick entirely, trailing blunt nails down his back as he pushed his fingers into Roger's hair and tugged.

 

“Come here,” Roger muttered as he pushed himself up, spitting into his hand and wrapping it around John’s half hard cock.

 

 “ _Ah_ ,” he gasped, heels of his boots thunking against the bed frame as he shuddered, sensitive as anything. “This is going to be so good, Deaky,” Roger promised as he got John hard, dropping a kiss to the dip of his stomach before stepping away to get the bottle of Freddie’s hair oil he’d nicked from the bathroom.

 

 John had one heel on the edge of the mattress and the other on the floor when Roger turned back to the bed, moving the pendant of his necklace backwards and forwards along it’s chain as he squinted up at the ceiling. John was so quiet and so smart and so, so talented that Roger would have liked him perfectly well if he wasn’t so cu...if he wasn’t a sexy little thing. Or didn’t have one hell of a bottom.

 

 Roger stepped up to the bed and touched John’s knee to make him look at him. “I really want your legs over my shoulders, but I also want to see your arse as I do you.”

 

“Now I see why you’re such a hit with the ladies.”

 

“I’m genuinely torn,” Roger traced his fingers down the inside of John’s knee, “And we’re friends. I don’t you to feel used.”

 

“How sweet.”

 

“If you’re going to take the piss I’ll just flip you over and get on with it,” Roger said, pinching his inner thigh.

 

“I wouldn't want to spoil the flow of the master of getting laid, would I?”

 

“Right,” Roger grunted, taking John by the hips and flipping him over, moving behind him as he dragged John down the bed until his feet hit the floor. “Anything feels weird or hurts you let me know right away.”

 

 “Okay.”

 

 He got the stopper out of the bottle and managed to not spill any as he poured some oil out into his hand. Roger hammered the stopper back in and dropped the bottle on the bed, giving John’s pert little bum a squeeze with his clean hand. “Fred will kill me if I damage you.”

 

“I’m the youngest, I’m not fragile. _I’ll_ kill _you_ if you damage me,” John snapped back a little breathlessly, whole body jerking when Roger slipped his fingers between his cheeks and rubbed oiled fingertips over his hole.

 

“Sounds kinky. I like it,” Roger teased, waiting for John to get settled before pressing against his hole. A girl had stuck a couple of fingers in his arse while sucking him off one time so he knew it wouldn’t hurt if you were expecting it, which John must be. He also knew enough about the whole thing from people talking that there needed to be lots of wet stuff involved for it to be any good, so he was covering all bases by getting everything oiled up.

 

 It was like an engine, he thought as he put the rest of the oil on his dick. All the moving parts had to be well greased up for it to run smoothly. Roger smiled to himself as he wiped his hand on John’s hip - maybe if he worked it right he’d get a good throaty purr out of this one.

 

 He squeezed John’s hip and bent over his back, pushing his long hair out of the way so he could plant a kiss to the top of his spine. “Ready?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Okay. Deep breath in, long breath out.”

 

 John did as he was told, breath shuddering out of him when Roger got the head of his cock inside him, giving him a moment before pressing in further. It was different from what he was used to, but good. Really good. Tight and hot and - and tight. He only managed not to thrust all the way in because he was so snug that he couldn’t imagine that it was nice for John.

 

“You okay Deaky?”

 

 He nodded a little frantically, boots clunking against the rug as he shifted his legs.

 

 Roger wasn't about to tell him to relax, he knew very well how that was the least relaxing thing for anyone to hear. Instead he stroked his hand up and down John’s back and sides, being careful not to move too much inside him as he kissed over the tense line of his narrow shoulders. “I’ve been looking at this arse for years, Deaks. Every practice, every hang out, every gig. You’re making a dream come true right now,” Roger spoke softly, kissing the back of John’s neck when he laughed. “I won’t be able to keep a beat for shit for weeks now I know what your pert little bottom feels like.”

 

“You randy git.”

 

“And you’ve not helped at all,” Roger smiled, he could feel John relaxing against him but didn’t feel like getting on with it just yet. “Wiggling your bum to the beat right where I can see it.”

 

 John let out a breathy laugh, peering at Roger over his shoulder. “To your beat, Roge.”

 

 He tried his very best to not let that animal part of every man that wants fuck for his own mindless need take over. Roger made his best effort to be careful at first, to be thoughtful, but John was a noisy one. Letting out breathless little gasps every time Roger moved inside him, his back bowing almost gracefully when he pushed back into Rogers thrusts, fingers twisting in the sheets.

 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Roger hissed, pressing one last kiss to John’s shoulders before straightening, taking his hips in both hands and pulling him onto his dick.

 

 John let out a startled noise that echoed around the room, almost drowning out the slap of skin on skin and Rogers grunts and curses as he bounced John’s slowly pinkening backside off his hips. The heels of Deaky's boots, those fucking platforms that were doing wonderful things to the tilt of his hips and the arch of his back, were leaving the ground every time Roger fucked into him, thunking back down when Roger pulled back.

 

 They were marking the beat of the rhythm Roger was setting, and the drummer in him couldn’t help adjusting until it sounded just right, smooth and steady and sexy.

 

“Roge…” John bit out, voice raw and pitched low. “ _Shit. Roger_.” Roger pushed in deep and stilled, getting both of his hands on John’s bum and squeezing hard. John whined high in his throat, hips jolting forward before pushing back into Roger’s hands. Demanding he keep fucking him.

 

 With great difficulty Roger pulled out, soothing the noise of protest John made by kissing down the bumps of his spine until he reached the dimples just above the swell of his arse. He encouraged John to turn around and lay on his back, tucking his fingers into the backs of his knees to pick his legs up and wrap around his waist. The soft suede of his boots brushed the backs of Roger’s own thighs when he curled over John’s flushed body, spreading his fingers into the dips between his ribs to feel his heaving breaths as he kissed him.

 

“Is it good?” John breathed against his lips.

 

“I should be asking you that.”

 

“It is. It’s...it’s a lot. But it’s good,” John pushed Rogers hair off his forehead. “You’re making it good.”

 

“I bloody hope so,” Roger shot him his best winning smile and pressed his lips against the inside of his wrist. “You feel incredible.”

 

 He gave John a smacking kiss and stood. He pulled one of John’s legs from around his waist and slung it over his shoulder, brushing a kiss to the inside of his knee as he pushed back into him.

 

 His earlier, tentative, control started to slip at bit now that he could see John, flushed and panting and overtaken with waves of a pleasure Roger was giving him. He let his leg drop from around Roger’s waist, giving him more room to fuck him and Roger started screwing him hard and deep. John having to reach above his head to brace a hand against the wall to stop Roger from shoving him up the mattress with the force of his thrusts.

 

 John started letting out little ‘ _ah-ah-ah_ ’ sounds, turning his face into his bicep as if to try and muffle them, the faint flush on his cheeks darkening in what Roger’s fuzzy brain realised was embarrassment. He stroked John's leg from hip up to the turn of his ankle and leant in closer, the movement pushing John’s leg back towards his chest, opening him up wider for Rogers cock. Roger took full advantage of that, feeling a thrill of triumph when John threw his head back and let out a sound that Roger would gleefully call a purr.

 

 “Wank yourself off,” Roger managed to get out and after a flash of what looked like petulance crossed John’s face he wrapped his free hand around his cock. He caught Roger's eye and held it with his ever level gaze, making out soft little noises as he let the force of Roger’s thrusts rock his dick into his fist.

 

 A tremble in his thighs was the first sign that John was cracking, Roger grinding in deep as he watched him start to jack himself a little desperately.

 

 After that, well - neither of them lasted very long. John’s blunt nails scraped against the wall when he came with a shudder, eyelids fluttering as he let out a gentle sigh. Roger kissed the curve of his calf and the bone of John’s ankle through his boot, rocking into him slow and shallow until John told him to get on with it.

 

 With his single minded determination to get off it didn’t take Roger more than a minute to cum. He thought about shooting of inside him but at the last moment pulled out, adding to the mess slipping down into the dip of John’s pale, trembling stomach.

 

 Roger took his time catching his breath, grinding back into John with weak rolls of his hips, enjoying the zing's of over-stimulation shooting up his spine until John made a noise of protest. Roger gave him a kiss on the cheek as an apology, kissing him on the lips to banish the wince from John's face when he pulled out. 

 

 They lay there, flopped out on the bed and just listening to one another pant, until John tried to roll towards him. He made a noise of disgust, pulling a face at his own stomach when Roger managed to pick his head up to look at him. 

 

"Oh," Roger breathed, looking at the mess he'd made of John - from the sweaty curls framing his face to the cum splattered over his stomach - before pushing himself up onto one elbow and reaching out to push John's hair off his forehead. "All right?"

 

"Yeah. More than all right."

 

"Feeling okay?"

 

 John nodded, smiling when Roger pecked him on the lips as naturally as anything. 

 

"You stay here, I'll go get a cloth or something for all that," Roger struggled up, getting his legs under him before swiping John's bathrobe to tie around himself. He found himself leaning over the bed to give John another, chaste kiss just for the hell of it before creeping up the stairs. 

 

 He only just missed running into Brian on his way back from the kitchen. Would have been caught outright if Brian wasn't in his own little world muttering to himself about something, completely missing an obviously fucked out Roger darting down into the basement with a wet cloth cupped in his hands.

 

 One boot was tossed onto the floor and John was trying to get the other one off when Roger stumbled down the steps, leg bent at an odd angle as he reached for the zip. From what he could see of his backside it still pink from Roger’s hips slapping against it, a colour to match the mottled flush that went from John’s cheeks to his navel. He looked well fucked, eyes still overly bright when they trailed over to Roger, his lips pink from kisses and his own teeth biting at them.

 

 Roger knew he was still loose and slick inside. That he could push back into John and do him all over again. Despite his dick twitching in interest at that thought Roger behaved like a gentleman, setting about getting John’s other boot off and helping to clean them both up.

 

 He flopped down onto the mattress again for a cigarette and a chat, but found himself fast asleep beside John in no time at all. He woke up to a stillness that meant everyone else in the house was asleep, the faint glow coming from John’s one high window the only thing to give away how early it was.

 

 He could have snuck back up to his room then, knowing no-one would be up so he could go past un-noticed. He certainly wouldn't have John's hair in his mouth or a cold brick wall at his back if he was upstairs. But, even though they were living on top of one another, Roger got lonely sometimes. They were working hard all day and most of the time were either fed of one another by the evenings, or just plain tired.

 

 Here Roger was with his three best mates and he was hardly hanging out with any them!

 

Roger pushed his face further into John's hair, knowing they'd probably be bickering over who got to shower first in a few hours, all this peace shattered, and breathed in deeply.

 

 He wasn't about to try and pass it off as keeping warm in the cool basement. He was man enough to admit that he wanted to be close to John, that he had needed to be close to _someone_ for a good few days now. The sleepy noise of contentment John made when Roger tightened his hold made him even more content to stay where he was, curled up on a slightly too small bed with a contented John nestled against his chest.

 

 

* ***** *

 

 They were in South America somewhere, the heat oppressive even without the thousands of bodies packed in to see them roast under the lights.

 

 John had given up dangerously tight flares for dangerously well fitting jeans now. Part of pale blue outfit that - if anyone bothered to ask him - Roger thought suited him far too well. He purposefully didn’t notice this fact on stage because he was a professional, and had spent the past however many years _not_ letting his mind drift to how good that still annoyingly pert bum felt.

 

 He could ignore John's presence better now than all those years ago. His drum riser was a good five foot in the air these days, so the paying public might have a chance of spotting him, but John still needed to hop up there for some songs. The one's where the rhythm section needed to be reacting to one another, ebbing and flowing as one with each another and the music. 

 

 Roger didn’t ogle, and John had never (purposefully) shoved his arse in Roger’s face, but he was always aware of John bopping away in his own little world. It was the same instinctual awareness that he had for what Bri and Fred were doing on stage, it would only became a _thing_ if he made it a thing. Again. But that's another story.

 

 All this professionalism faltered a little if John was still up there when they rocketed into that little song that really, really, wasn’t about fucking his _car_.

 

 Roger had gotten that well oiled engine to purr after all, one more than one occasion, and that beat he had set had been much too good to waste.

 

 

  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This now as a wonderful [mood-board and song list](https://john-deacons-bass.tumblr.com/post/182759873635/a-little-something-i-made-for-grandpianopossessed) that I love so dam much.
> 
>  
> 
> These were 4 fic's I wrote for the squad that kinda merged into one, so the flow between the first one and the other four chpt's might not be quite so smooth but eh, we'll get through.
> 
> The real people are the real people, this is fiction, meant with the greatest respect and good humour, etc, etc.
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks to Brooke for expanding my dam mind about IILWMC, to Jack for enabling me, and to Maddie and Gage for being dope.


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

**-1975**

 

 Freddie had been on to them since the morning after Roger had finally gotten Deaky out of his jeans on to his back.

 

 Or, more specifically, been on to Roger.

 

 Freddie had taken a long look at Deaky over his coffee ane somehow known he’d been - with full irony - _rogered_ thoroughly the night before.

 

 Roger had enjoyed watching the flurry of emotions cross his face from the other end of the counter. Feeling a smug sense of ‘ _yep, your sweet Johnny does shag_ ’ right up until the moment he saw Freddie put two and two together and get Roger Taylor.

 

 His case may have been helped if he’d not been looking so self satisfied when Freddie’s stormy eyes had flicked to him. Maybe it would taken some of the edge off of Freddie acting like Roger had taken his only child's virginity in the back of a dodgy cinema, without even paying for the popcorn.

 

 Brian fell in a few days later, following John into the studio after lunch and giving Roger a long suffering look of ‘ _mate, seriously_ ’ which, fair play. He probably deserved that.

 

 He might have even deserved the four hours Freddie had him doing fucking timpani overlays.

 

 He did not personally think he deserved to have his voice almost ruined singing falsetto about some dead Italian bloke. He sounded like his balls had been lopped off, which might have been Freddie’s point come to think of it. Brian didn’t actively try and stop his metaphorical castration, so maybe he had deserved that too.

 

 John carried on like all this wasn’t going on around him, the calm at the centre of the storm Freddie was directing at Roger. He nursed extra takes onto suffering tape, played what Freddie wanted like he could hear what was going on in his head, and rolled his eyes at everyone’s antics when he thought no-one was looking. He was sweet and earnest and bitingly funny when he felt like it, and was the only thing stopping Roger from throwing his drum kit through the control room’s window.

 

 

* ***** *

 

 Freddie’s voice crackling over the studio mic saying, “That was perfect Roge, thank you,” was the divine sign that his studio based penance had been paid.

 

 “Am I forgiven now?” Roger asked into his drum mic, grinning at Freddie around his cigarette.

 

 “You’re a cad and a rascal,” Freddie told him with a dramatic roll of his eyes even though he was smiling, Brian audible in the background laughing in something almost like relief.

 

 Peace declared, they got on with the job at hand; Freddie was brilliant, Brian exacting. John had fallen into one of his quiet moods but was still getting his bass to rumble right through Roger who was, as always, perfect on the drums.

 

 The day went well. Roger might have even called it smooth, which should have made him more suspicious than he was. Queen didn’t do smooth. Easy, maybe, but never smooth - a prickle was a part of their process. But he was too happy to be off Freddie’s shit list to give it much thought beyond double checking that the recording light was on while they were playing.

 

 If - or, when - a problem raised it’s head, he’d deal with it.

 

 

* ***** * 

 

“I think you should go talk to Deaky,” Brian said, looming in the doorway of Roger’s room.

 

“What?” he asked, dropping the book he was reading onto his bare chest to rub at his eyes.

 

“I said, you should go and talk to Deaky. He’s…” Brian sighed. “Just go and talk to him before Freddie see’s him. Please?”

 

 Roger rolled off his bed and somehow landed on his feet, already reaching for his jacket as he asked, “What’s happened?”

 

“Nothing. Please go and…”

 

“Talk to him. Yes I heard you the first time,” Roger muttered as he shoved his bare arms into the sleeves. “Care to tell me what about?”

 

“What do you think, Roge?”

 

“Give me some fucking credit, ” Roger rolled his eyes as he shouldered Brian out of the doorway. “I didn’t just do him and run,” he paused half way down the stairs to jab a finger at Brian. “You two need to give him more credit as well. He’s an adult with more sense than any of us lot.”

 

 He was about to steal Brian’s shoes and make a dramatic exit when he realised he had no idea where he was going. He took a deep breath, mustering enough pride to yell up the stairs to demand where John was.

 

 The summer evening sky was turning slowly pink above the roofs of the farm buildings when Roger made it outside. He took a moment to appreciate it, leaning back against the front door of their little farm house, before wrapping his coat around himself and setting off.

 

 The sky was the only nice thing about being outside in the evenings. The courtyard got hardly any sun in the late afternoon so it got damp out there - damp and dank and cold. Roger swore out loud when he nearly slipped on a patch of mud, then swore at Brian’s stupid clogs that he could do little more than waddle in as he made his way over to the studio barn.

 

 The control booth was dark when Roger stumbled through the door. He kicked the clogs off and made his way over to the mixing desk, squinting against the bright lights of the live room as he peered through the glass at John.

 

 He was exactly where he’d been when Brian had called it a day; knelt on the floor with his hands in one of the Deacy Special amps, the bottle of beer that Roger had opened for him a couple of hours ago still sitting untouched on the chair beside him.

 

“ _Shit,_ ” Roger muttered to himself, stomping over to the door and throwing it open to announce his presence. “Deaky!”

 

 John shot him a look over his shoulder, eyes blank like they sometimes got in front of large crowds, before going back to doing something complicated with a pair of pliers. Roger let his eyes trail over him, taking in the way his long legs were curled under himself, at how his shoulders were pulled in like he was trying to become as small as possible, and sighed.

 

 Roger crossed the room and dropped to sit on the shell of the amp, lighting a cigarette and holding it out to John. He looked at it for a moment, worrying his lip between his teeth, before putting down the pliers and slipping the cigarette from between Roger’s fingers.

 

 He didn’t smoke much so Roger was surprised when he took a long drag, shaking out his shoulders as he exhaled towards the ceiling. They passed the cigarette backwards and forwards a few times, Roger not putting up a fight when John kept it, just sat and watched him smoke it down to nothing and then flick it towards the piano.

 

“So...Freddie knows.”

 

“Yep.”

 

“When did he work it out?”

 

 Roger nudged John’s electricians kit with his toes, “The morning after.” He drummed his fingers on the side of the amp and glanced at John, “I think everyone’s worked it out by now. I didn’t tell _anyone_ …”

 

 John nodded, sighed, and then pitched sideways to lean his temple on Roger’s thigh, “I know. You’re not that much of a prat.”

 

“Such compliments!” Roger considered the top of John’s head, the wavy brown hair that he knew was soft to the touch, and crossed his arms over chest. “Are you...is it because you slept with a bloke or that it was…”

 

“What is?”

 

“What?”

 

“What is it because?”

 

“You, mate, are _tinkering_. You only start fiddling with stuff when things are getting to you.”

 

“I thought only Freddie noticed things like that.”

 

“I notice you,” Roger said softly, wincing at how sincere that came out.

 

“I didn’t mean...Freddie’s always looked out for me. Like that, you know. Keeps an eye on me when I get…I didn’t mean you ignore me Roge, or anything like that.”

 

“It’s okay Deaks,” Roger said, wanting to jiggle his legs but forcing them still. “What I'm saying was that something is bothering you, and I was asking if it’s because people know you shagged a guy, or if it’s because they know it was me?”

 

 John jerked his head up to look at Roger. “Of course not.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I don’t care about any of that,” John said with an air of finality, laying his head back on Roger’s leg. “It’s everyone knowing something so personal, I suppose. Does that make me sound like a prude?”

 

“Not at all. You’re a private person.”

 

“And Freddie acting like - like….like you’d stolen my virginity, which is ridiculous…”

 

“Weeell,” Roger teased, laughing when John pinched his calf. “I know, I know.”

 

“I am sorry about Freddie doing that, by the way.”

 

“It’s fine. I’ve had worse. Like you said, he looks out for you,” Roger said, reaching out to run his hand very gently over John’s hair.

 

“I feel like it’s taken the tarnish off it all, a bit. Not - it might have been just lay for you, I don’t know. But it wasn’t just a...a lay for me. It was fun, I felt good. It’s all right if it was for you - don’t worry I didn’t fall in love with you or anything,” John said, laughing awkwardly and then letting out small, embarrassed noise.

 

“It wasn’t just a lay to me.” Roger said softly, giving in to his itchy fingers and carding them through the waves of John’s hair. “I told you, I never sleep with people for the hell of it. I’d do it again even if we weren’t stuck in the middle of nowhere.”

 

 John pressed his head back against Roger’s palm as he looked up at him, eyes big and bright. “That sounds a lot like a line, and not a very good one at that.”

 

“I think I used worse on you last time.”

 

“Yes, and more fool me!”

 

 Roger grinned. “Did my bad lines work this time?”

 

 John leant into Roger’s hand before swaying away. “Do you really think this is a good idea?”

 

“It’s a great ideal whilst also being a terrible one, but when had that ever stopped me?” Roger said, ducking his head to look John in the eye. “We had a good time - well, I had a great time and you looked like you did too. We’re not hurting anyone, and Freddie got over it. ‘Sides, in my experience people tend you take you shagging someone twice better than you shagging someone once.”

 

 John gave him a look that made it clear he thought he was bullshitting him, but was kind enough to not say so.

 

 In fact he was kind enough to tilt his head just enough for Roger to bend down and kiss him. It was just a peck on the lips - more an offer, a testing of the waters than anything. John ran his tongue over his bottom lip when Roger pulled back, lashes fluttering against his cheek as he reached up to cup Roger’s cheek. That was all Roger needed to kiss him again, tangling his fingers in John’s hair and tugging just enough to have him press close to Roger as he licked into his mouth.

 

 That he was shirtless had slipped Roger’s mind, as it often did, so it was a nice surprise when John’s calloused fingertips dragged down his bare stomach. He made a noise of pleasure, a shiver running through him that had John smiling against his lips and doing that again. And again. And again, until Roger slid off the amp and pushed him flat onto the carpet.

 

 Roger straddled John’s legs as he leant over him, resting his hands on John’s hips and slipping his thumbs under the band of John’s jeans to press into his abdomen. John gasped into his mouth, pushing his hands inside of Roger’s jacket to trail them from his shoulders down to his waist and pull Roger down on top of him.

 

 “I dont know why you were fiddling about with that amp,” Roger murmured as he kissed down John's neck. “When you could have been fiddling about with me?”

 

“I'm better with amps.”

 

“Then,” Roger scraped his teeth over John's adams apple, sliding his palm over John’s waist to curl over his ribs. “You should have let me fiddle about with you.”

 

 John laughed, breathless, letting his legs fall open as Roger slotted himself between them. “I didn't know you were an expert.”

 

“Always willing to give it a go, you know me,” he tightened his hold on John's hip, slipping the other hand around John's back to support him as Roger sat up and pulled him into his lap. “I could be a soppy sod and say I'm willing to be an expert in you, but I'd much prefer to just grab your bottom if you don't mind.”

 

 John smiled as he ducked his head to kiss Roger again, “I was waiting for you to get on with it.”

 

 And get on with it Roger did. He let his jacket fall from his shoulders, undoing John's jeans enough to shove his hand into the back of his underwear. He grabbed his arse just hard enough to pull John's hips against his, coaxing John into a dirty, open mouthed kiss as they rocked together slowly.

 

 Everything was unhurried, leisurely enjoyment until John ran his hands down Rogers chest, the callouses scraping over his nipples sending a jolt of heat straight to his groin. Roger gasped, bucking up against John who smiled against his lips and ran his blunt nails lightly over the path his fingers had just taken.

 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Roger ground out, grabbing a handful of John's hair to yank his head back and suck a mark on to his neck in revenge. John whined and writhed in his grip, digging his nails into Roger’s sides and leaving faint red scratches that stung beautifully.

 

 Roger relinquished his hold on John to get his own trousers loosened for his comfort, giving his dick a quick rub before wrapping his arm around John’s waist to pull him tight against him. He swallowed John’s grunt of protest at being manhandled with a kiss, his knee’s slipping against the carpet when he tried to brace himself against Roger.

 

“Don’t,” John warned when Roger made to move him again, cupping his hand around the back of Roger’s neck. He flexed his fingers, making sure he had a good grip before grinding his dick against Roger’s with one smooth roll of his hips.

 

“ _Oh christ Deaky_ ,” Roger panted when John got a rhythm going, a breathless smile tugging at his lips when he pushed his arse back against Roger’s hand. The over head lights were bright and unflattering, their breaths and grunts and the rustle of their clothing loud in the high ceilinged room as they rocked together. It was neither elegant nor earth shattering, but it was intense; lax lips sliding together as they panted into one another's mouths, Roger trying not to think about how good this would be naked. How good it would feel if his dick was in John while he circled his hips like that.

 

 Roger angled his head back in invitation, spreading his hand across the span of John’s back when he began to suck gentle kisses up Roger’s neck. He lent back slightly against the amp, encouraging John to press his hips down harder as sharp teeth began to nip along Roger’s jaw. John slid his fingers into Roger’s hair when he made it to his ear, pressing in close so he caught every hitched, breathless noise he made as they rocked together, driving Roger half out of his mind.

 

 Roger shoved his hand deeper into John’s underwear, moaning at the noise John made when he pressed a thumb between his cheeks. “I’d never co - I’d never thought about that, about doing that with you, until we…an’ now I keep thinking about it,” John admitted quietly, the catch in his breath being what had Roger shuddering and holding John all the tighter as he shot off in his underwear.

 

 It took a minuet for John to realise what had happened. Roger was going to let him carry on and pretended like he hadn’t just done that, but he couldn't help letting out a hiss of discomfort at a particularly aggressive rut against his over-sensitive dick.

 

 John leant back, hand still curled tightly around the back of Roger’s neck, and gave him a searching look. Roger tried to kiss him so as not to give himself away, but John was already smiling. “It happens,” he said so gently Roger’s pride was almost - almost - not irreparably dented. “It’s all right. I’ll take it as a compliment.” He smoothed Roger's hair, kissing him firmly as he started to slip out of Roger’s lap.

 

“Oh no you don't, Deaks,” Roger said and grabbed John by the thighs to still him, wriggling a hand into his underwear. “I always see things through to the end.”

 

 

* ***** *

 

 It was one in the morning but Roger didn't give a shit as he let out a loud whoop, crashing through the front door of his flat with Deaky tripping in after him.

 

 They'd been out to celebrate being back in London. Nothing extravagant, they were too poor for that, just the band and their friends out at the local pub for some drinks and some dancing. It was a good night, the booze had been in a constant flow from the bar to where Freddie had been holding court, Roger and Brian working the room whilst John had cut a dash on the dance floor.

 

 For how anxious or shy he could be, he was never self conscious, and he always seemed to come alive when dancing. Roger had found himself watching John talk and dance and laugh with people, periodically getting Freddie to join him or acting the fool to make Brian smile. His flushed, bright, beaming attention would turn wholly onto Roger whenever he had felt like shaking his arse for a bit - which had turned out to be quite often after he had spotted one of John’s dance partner’s wandering hands.

 

 So yeah, all in all it was a good night, Roger had thought to himself as he had leant against outside wall of the pub. He had lit a cigarette, closing his eyes while the night air cooled his skin and brushed some of the fuzz of alcohol from his brain. Freddie’s bell like laugh and John’s giggle had him opening his eyes to see what was going on, gaze slipping past an obviously drunk Brian doing a dramatic retelling of something, to the small crowd of football fans that had been coming down the other side of the street.

 

 They of course had seen a bunch of long haired boys in satin and make up and, full of beer and (most likely) the sting of defeat, had started yelling awful things. A few awful things were yelled back of course. And then Roger had thrown his pint glass at them.

 

 The next thing he knew he had been running after John as he sprinted off down the Kings Road, a furious bellowing following after them. Roger had been having the time of his life, drunk on Whitbread and the thrill of being chased by a bunch of morons. He cackled wildly when the yelling faded away, their pursuers no doubt off to take their frustrations out on a shop front when they realised they weren't about to catch a couple of _poofs_.

 

 They had ducked into a side street to try and catch their breath after they'd put enough distance was between them and their adoring public. Roger tried to stifle his laughter in the face of John’s serious expression until he had cracked a small smile, and that had set the both of them off laughing.

 

 They hadn’t thought to make their way back to the pub after that. Instead Roger had slung his arm around John and they had wound their way through the back streets of Kensington until they had happened upon the door leading up to Roger and Fred’s flat.

 

 Roger kicked the front door closed behind him, struggling to get out of his shoes as John clunked about looking for the light switch.

 

 Roger blinked into the sudden brightness when the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling flared into life, laughing again in triumph when he finally got his shoes off.

 

“Well, what d'ya think about that Deaky?”

 

“Freddie…....Freddie saying that thing about football shorts,” he giggled a little helplessly and it made Roger smile. A smile that only grew when John’s eyes widened as he looked at him, “And I can't believe you threw a pint at them!”

 

“Me neither,” Roger pushed a hand through his hair and strolled over to John who was wriggling out of his jacket. “I hadn't even drunk ‘alf of it.”

 

“I had to leave mine behind,” John said mournfully, shooting a small smile at Roger when he tugged down Johns shirt where it had rucked up at the back.

 

 He was flushed and radiating warmth. His shirt was cut low, the slip of chest on show pale and smooth. Soft, Roger’s brain provided, his lips tingling in the memory of how John’s skin had felt, of how the sheen of sweat at the dip at the base of his throat would taste.

 

 Roger licked his lips none to subtly and rocked forward on his toes, resting his hands on John's hips and cocked his head, making his eyes all big and soulful and heated. “I could get you another one,” he offered, “But would you like to see my etchings first?”

 

“Your...are you feeling randy because you almost had the snot kicked out of you?”

 

“I could have taken them,” Roger assured with barely any bravado. “But I’ll cop to the adrenaline rush. And you running in heels was a bit sexy.”

 

“It made my feet hurt.”

 

“Sometimes beauty is pain.”

 

 John rolled his eyes and tried to move away like he thought Roger was taking the piss, but Roger held on, taking a step back and pulling John with him. “You looked good all evening, shaking your bum on the dance floor. You look even better now. Flushed and...” John looked vaguely pained so Roger eased his hold on him. “Look, I’ll back off if you say so. And if what they were shouting at us makes you…”

 

“I don’t give a shit what a bunch of morons think of me.” John said levelly, a challenge in his voice that Roger knew wasn't directed at him.

 

 They watched one another, the atmosphere in the flat becoming charged when Roger tightened his grip on John’s hips.

 

 They stumbled into Roger’s room, John kicking a pile of Rogers clothes out of the way before Roger shoved him against the door to close it. He leant against John's front to brush their lips together, pressing closer when John ran his hand hesitantly down Roger’s back to rest on the curve of his bum.

 

 “Oooh ‘allo,” Roger grinned, pecking kisses along John’s bottom lip until he lost patience with him, taking Roger’s face in his hands and kissing him.

 

 Roger managed to get all of the tiny pearl buttons on John's shirt open without ripping any of them, dragging the silk off of his shoulders and chucking it on the floor. Roger did his best to stay close to John while he shimmied out of his own shirt, starting on his jeans before it had even hit the ground.

 

 He almost stumbled when he kicked them away and he laughed when John steadied him, pushing him back against to door to kiss him hard. He got his hands on John’s fly but paused, pulling away from the kiss to consider his shoes before giving John a sly smile as he dropped to his knees.

 

 “Wha…”John squeaked, swallowing audibly when Roger set about undoing his laces, gently cupping John's ankles as he carefully pulled off one shoe and then the other, setting them down next to the door. Sitting back on his heels Roger looked up at John who was bathed in the light from the street lamp outside the window, illuminating enough of him for Roger to see that he was flushing all the way down his chest.

 

“You’re blushing.”

 

“I’m _pale_.”

 

 Roger ran his hand up the back of John’s calf and the outside of his thigh. He held his gaze as he walked his fingers over to the zip of his trousers, pulling it down slowly as John squirmed against the door. He’d had a few blow jobs in his time, so he thought he could manage a passable one if he felt like it. Which he didn’t particularly, but that wasn’t to say he wasn’t curious.

 

 He curled his fingers into John’s underwear and started to pull them down along with his trousers, stopping when he felt John tense. “I’ve seen you naked before, you know,” Roger said, dropping a kiss to John’s stomach when he gave him a weak look. “Has a not-so-nice girl ever sucked you off, Deaks?”

 

“No.”

 

 Roger wasn’t surprised, the decent northern lad that John was. He kissed John’s stomach one last time before dragging is trousers down his legs, not failing to notice the flash of relief on his face when he rolled back onto his feet. “So you’ll let me shag you but not suck you off?”

 

“I’m a complicated man,” John said smoothly, a sparkle in his eye that had Roger laughing.

 

 John let himself be dragged across the room and tipped onto Roger’s bed, his smile big and beaming when Roger climbed on top of him.

 

 Roger didn't dive in straight away, instead propping himself on his elbows so he could look down at John, brushing his fingers through John’s hair so it lay neatly over the sheets. He was as just lovely as Roger had always thought he was, fucking him hadn’t changed that, hadn't shaken him from Rogers system, and he found that was glad of it.

 

 Calloused fingers started to trace patterns over his back and Roger smiled to himself- musicians and their itchy fingers. He shifted to give John better access to his skin, brushing the backs of his fingers over John's cheek as he leant in to kiss him. He grinned at the unimpressed huff John let out when he stopped just short of John’s lips. Roger pressed his hips down hard, waiting until John let out a helpless little gasp before he finally kissed him, licking into John’s mouth in time with the grind of his hips. John sighed and pushed up against Roger, thumbing over one of his nipples to make him moan and rut against him harder. Instead of his enthusiasm getting Roger more of that, it got him John shaking in his arms, full on giggling when Roger pulled away to check he was all right.

 

“What are you...ugh,” he rolled his eyes as he rolled off of John to grab the Vaseline from his nightstand. “If I didn’t like you so much I’d be insulted you brought that up again.”

 

“It’s not all that bad. At least it happened after I knew you weren’t all talk,” he teased gently, turning to look at Roger when he dropped down next to him. “It could have just as easily happened to me, I suppose.”

 

“Hmmm,” Roger hummed as he rolled onto his side, propping his head up on his fist and dropping the Vaseline on to the other side of John. He pushed John’s fringe off of his face before bopping him gently on the nose, pretending like he was going to tickle John's neck just to make him laugh and swat halfheartedly at Roger's hands. He kissed John's neck instead, tracing John's clavicle and the bumps of his breast bone, smoothing his hand down his side and slipping it between John’s thighs to encourage his legs open.

 

 Things got on after that. Roger found himself with his underwear half down his legs while he rutted against John’s thigh, three fingers twisting in him just to see John’s long fingers tangle in the sheets.

 

 Roger kissed the side of his head, nosing John’s hair out of the way so he could whisper into his ear. “I think making you go off like this then shagging you sounds like a plan, doesn’t it?”

 

“ _Git,_ ” John ground out as he tipped his head back and sighed, rolling his hips against Roger's hand. “I didn't _make_ you cum in your knickers.”

 

 Roger pushed himself up so he loomed over John, the bed creaking when he curled his fingers and John jerked. “Didn’t you?”

 

 John flushed darker, trying to hide it as he pushed his face into his arm but Roger had seen it. He nipped at his jaw and his neck, smacking kisses against his cheek until John let out a noise of protest. His mouth fell open, no doubt to needle Roger, so he kissed him. He was in no rush to get to it, he'd be happy just working John to orgasm like this. Watching him fall apart piece by piece as Roger swallowed every noise that fell from his kiss bruised lips.

 

 That being said, when John breathed out an almost silent “ _please_ ” Roger had little choice but to comply (John could get almost anything out of Freddie and Roger just by being sweet, and woe betide them both if he ever realised it).

 

 John let go of the sheets to grab at Roger, blunt nails digging into his side's when Roger slipped his fingers out of him. He manoeuvred John onto his side and pressed up against his back, shoving his face into John’s hair as his dick slid against the soft skin at his lower back.  “Y’allright Deaks?” he asked, tucking a hand behind John's knee to push his top leg up towards his chest.

 

“Yes.”

 

 Roger took his dick in hand and rubbed the head from the top of John’s arse to the smooth skin behind his balls and back up to his hole, the both of them groaning when Roger eased into him.

 

 He started rocking into John when he was halfway inside of him, wrapping an arm around his middle to hold him securely against Roger's chest. John reached back to grab onto Roger’s hip and tug him closer, swallowing down a moan when Roger's dick slid into him as deep as it could go.

 

“ _Oh yeah_ ,” Roger heard himself say. He got an elbow under his body to try and get the leverage rock into John harder, dropping biting kisses onto the ball of Johns shoulder when his grip tightened on Roger’s hip hard enough to bruise.

 

 Little by little Roger’s attempts to fuck John as thoroughly as he could shifted them so John ended up laying face down on the bed. Roger swung a leg over his thighs so he was straddling him, pausing to let John get comfortable before grabbing his bum in both hands and giving it a squeeze as he started to shag him again.

 

 John had his face buried in his arms, muffling the noises he made whenever Roger drove in to him. Roger braced a hand against the headboard so he could lean over John’s back, giving him a couple of deliciously long, slow thrusts to make him moan louder and kick his feet in the air.

 

“That’s it Deaky. Let me hear you.”

 

“No!” he said, voice muffled but petulant and Roger laughed. He tugged John’s hips up to try and get a better angle to hit whatever was driving John wild, slipping a hand under him to wrap around his dick.

 

 The bed began to creak gently in time with Roger’s thrusts, the room filling with the sound of his grunts and the dull slap of skin on skin when he gave a particularly hard thrust. He dug his knee’s into the mattress and lowered his head until he could rest his lips on John’s shoulder, licking the clean sweat from his skin before sucking a kiss there, biting down when John twisted and gasped and came all over Roger’s hand.

 

 Roger didn’t mean to shoot his rocks into him. He felt that was something one should ask about first, even if there was no chance of anyone getting knocked up. But John looked beautiful even from the behind, the ends of his hair curling over his faintly freckled shoulders. And this arse was pert and tight when he shook and moaned under Roger, heels knocking against his back while Roger fucked John through his orgasm and then his own.

 

 Roger let his head hang between his shoulders when his thrusts finally petered out, leaning heavily on the hand holding onto the headboard. “Bloody hell Deaks,” he muttered as he slipped out of him and collapsed sideways.

 

 He stared up at the ceiling as he let his breathing even out, rolling his head to the side and helping to push John’s hair out of his eyes so he could blink back at him. “You okay?”

 

 John nodded, giving Roger a small smile when he picked up his hand and kissed his knuckles. “Yes,” he said softly, leaving his hand in Roger’s when he rested them on the mattress between them. “Yes. It was...that was good.”

 

“Good?”

 

“Don’t fish.”

 

“Who me?”

 

 Deaky shifted, a smile in his eyes. “I still like it. I might have liked it even more than last time.”

 

“Good,” Roger said, pretending to preen.

 

“Did you?”

 

 Roger rolled onto his side and kissed John’s flushed cheek. “That’s a silly question,” he traced the backs of his fingers down John’s spine. “Best lay I’ve had all month.”

 

 John gave him a dark look and pushed himself up onto his forearms, “I’m the only lay you’ve had all month.”

 

 “All year then.”

 

“Not ever?”

 

“That would be flattery and I know you’d never fall for that.”

 

 John snorted, but came easily when Roger curled a hand around his neck and pulled him close. “I like you John,” he admitted, turning his head just enough for a lock of John’s hair to brush his cheek. “And I like doing this with you. And I like that you like doing it too. Not for me, but for...I like it that you get off like I do from it? Stop laughing at me!”

 

“Never,” John promised against his lips before pulling away to sit up, grimacing when he did.

 

“You okay?” Roger asked as he jerked into a half sitting position, suddenly worried.

 

“I’m fine. Just…” John blushed. “Better use your bathroom.”

 

 Roger stared at him a moment, feeling his cheeks heat.

 

 He rolled off the bed and staggered over to his wardrobe to pull his dressing gown from the door and hand it over. “I’m sorry about that. I didn’t mean to - to, you know. Cum in you.”

 

“It’s all right,” John assured as he pulled the fake silk over his shoulders, giving Roger an almost shy peck on the lips before slipping out of the door.

 

 Roger dumped the dirty coverlet on the floor and pulled back the duvet before flopping onto the bed. He wiggled around until he was comfortable, thinking about what they had just done and how good it was. About how he couldn’t even give a fuck that John would definitely give him shit about going off in him like that, because it was all John’s fault anyway. The git.

 

 He must have dozed off because the next thing he knew John was climbing into bed next to him. Roger reached out blindly to grab him and pull him closer, making a pleased noise at the warmth of his shower fresh skin. Then making a noise of discontent when he found John was wearing a t-shirt.

 

“Freddie’s back,” John muttered as he settled in to sleep, oblivious to Roger’s eyes snapping open to stare out into the darkness of his room.

 

 

* ***** *

 

 Roger woke up aching in the best possible way and with a mouth full of John’s hair. Again.

 

 He spat that out and jabbed his fingers into John's sides until he squirmed and sleepily threatening to smother Roger with his pillow. He still let Roger kiss him awake though, morning breath be damned.

 

 Roger let him use his toothbrush before going to shower, pressing his fingers against the hand shaped bruise on his hip as he jacked off under their limited hot water supply.

 

 He stomped into the kitchen with his hair still dripping onto his dressing gown, making a point of not pulling up short in his quest for coffee when he found Freddie sat at the table smoking and sipping tea as he watched John butter some toast.

 

“Good morning Roge,” Freddie said pleasantly. “Kettle’s just boiled.”

 

“Thanks. Morning,” he said, very aware of how close he passed behind John’s chair as he went to make himself some tea.

 

“But I gave Deaky the last of the milk,” Freddie said just as Roger poured the water onto the tea bag. “And the sugar.”

 

 Roger shot a look to the back of Freddie’s head as he stubbed out his cigarette, catching John’s eye before crossing to the fridge. “Did you give him the last of the bread as well?”

 

“No, there’s toast on for you.”

 

 Roger wasn’t sure about what all this giving with one hand and taking away with the other shit was about. He was too hungry to think much about that now so he popped his toast out and went to collapse into the chair on the other side of Freddie from John, making sure Freddie saw him drink his bitter black tea.

 

 Freddie gave him a droll look and began to regale them with the tale of what him and Bri had done after Roger and John had legged it last night. “...Well, then I had to throw a glass at them as well, can’t have you upstage me can I, Roge? And when they tried to start something I at least had the balls to call their bluff, not flee into the night! Brian gave them what for as well! It was very funny I wish you two had seen it. Then of course we had to move on as the police were called. We went to a little place...”

 

“Weren’t you worried about us?” John asked as he held out his hand for the marmalade in front of Roger.

 

“Deathly! That’s why I chased after them to throw my glass! Although I had no doubt you two spry young things would outrun them, and outrun them you did! We saw you two disappearing up the road like a pair of drugged up Russian athletes...” he said, keen eyes watching Roger push the jar into John’s hand and smile softly at him. “Brian and I of course knew you two would be able to beat those rascals to a pulp.”

 

“Oh yeah,” John laughed, pulling up the sleeve of Freddie's jumper he was wearing to flex his barely there muscles. “Us big strong ‘uns.”

 

“Speak for yourself. I'm the muscle of this group!” Roger protested. “I'd have punched their lights out for you Deaks, don't you worry.” He took a bite of toast, grinning at John when poked his tongue out at him.

 

 Freddie sipped his tea as the two of them got on with their breakfast and chatted about what was playing on the radio. He waited until a lull in conversation to carefully place his mug down, turning it so the pattern on it faced towards him before he turned to Roger.

 

 “Roge, you are going to have to buy a new bed.”

 

 Roger stopped mid chew, having a horrible thought that Freddie was about to bully him into getting a nice new bed because his one wasn't _good enough_ to shag John in. He glanced at John who was looking on in mild confusion before directing his attention to Freddie.

 

“Am I?”

 

“It squeaks Roger! I won't get a wink of sleep if you carry on making off tempo squeaks!”

 

“ _Freddie don't_ ,” John pleaded just as Roger squawked “Off **tempo**?”

 

“Deaky, darling I’m sorry, but he was. You were Roger.”

 

 John sighed, sitting back in his seat as Roger demanded. “Off tempo? Since when could you bloody drum?”

 

“I can hold a beat well enough.”

 

“We’ll swap places on tour then shall we, if you’re so good at it.”

 

“It was just an observation, Roger.”

 

“I wasn’t aware I had to keep time when…” Roger snapped his mouth shut and glanced at John who was giving them both a dirty look.

 

“I didn’t notice the squeak. I was rather occupied you see,” he said said to Freddie as he pushed his chair back from the table and stood. “But,” he put in just as Roger was about to give a half proud, half pissy Freddie a cheeky grin, “you were off tempo Roger.”

 

 He picked up the empties from the table and went to run the sink, leaving the two of them sat there in silence until Freddie shook his hair and declared. “We did deserve that didn’t we?”

 

“Yeah.” Roger admitted, eyes trailing over to John who was bopping his hip to the beat of the song on the radio.

 

 A tap on the leg brought his attention back to Freddie who was, to Roger's surprise, looking faintly charmed. He handed him a cigarette, as much of a peace offering as the two of them ever needed, and Roger took it with a nod, sitting back to smoke it with a smile.

 

 The plumbing always whirred and rattled, and the radio had developed a crackle at some point over the last month, the window's doing nothing to block out the faint noise of the traffic on the road outside. It was not a peaceful morning, few were in the Taylor/Mercury abode, but Roger felt peaceful. He looked over at Freddie and watched as his eyes become heavy lidded, looking almost like a satisfied cat, and felt...content. Happy. He idly wished Brian was here, smiling at the thought of how even his gentle bickering with John over the washing up wouldn't make Roger feel any less content right now. 

 

 He made a noise soft enough to not disturb the peace, but loud enough that it still caught John's attention. He glanced at Roger over his shoulder, eyes turned pale in the sunlight, and Roger felt such a swell of something that he had to pull his knee's up to his chest in the fear it might slip open and spill that something out for all to see. It must have been clear on his face, this feeling, because John looked startled for a moment. Roger was afraid he'd shown to much, but John - ever dependable John -  recovered quickly. His expression became so gentle as he turned back to what he was doing that Roger felt suddenly silly, wrapping an arm around his knee's as he grinned at the whole kitchen.

 

 Freddie was watching him, a knowing, sly smile on his face, giggling softly when Roger pulled a face at him.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took nearly a week. New Years happened, I went back to work, got a cold, and then had to do a dramatic performance to half of Queen's discography. HAD to. 
> 
> Thanks for all those leaving comments, y'all are so lovely.


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

**-1976**

 

 

“Deaky?”

 

“ _Roger_.”

 

“Just checking you remembered I was still ‘ere.”

 

 John glanced at Roger who was sprawled on the sofa. He had his head propped up on the headrest, watching John fiddle with Roger’s Polaroid camera that was starting to show its age.

 

 John’s eyes trailed over him, then around the quiet dressing room before shooting Roger a small smile. Roger grinned back and pushed himself further up the couch to get a better look him. At the tilt of his head and turn of his wrist and the cock of his hip. Silly things that Roger would never admit to doing unless he was alone with John in the dark.

 

 He laid there watching John's sweet smile drop back into a frown of concentration. Then he watched him fiddle and mutter to himself until Freddie landed a ringing slap on Roger’s arse.

 

" _Hey!_ "

 

"It's time to get ready, lover boy," Freddie announced, breezing past John and declaring him an ‘electrical genius’ before throwing open their wardrobe trunks.

 

“You’re a soppy bastard, Taylor,” Brian told him when Roger tried to elbow him out of the way of the mirror. The two of them tussled, sharp elbows primed for jabs to the ribs, before pressing their shoulders together in order to share.

 

“Jealous I never watched you do maths and draw charts at uni?”

 

“In your dreams,” Brian snorted, giving Roger a parting gift of a foundation sponge to the face before going to tune up.

 

 They trooped out to the side of the stage in their usual procession, Brian leading the way with John hid somewhere at the back. Roger stood there drumming his sticks against his thigh as they were introduced, impatient to get going, when someone called his name.

 

 The roadies were always bringing girls and guys backstage with promises to meet the band, hoping to get lucky with any of the ones who didn’t catch someone’s eye. Roger shot the small, wide eyed gaggle of fans his winning smile out of habit more than anything, catching himself as they giggled amongst themselves. He glanced over at John who was fidgeting, tapping the heel of one platform on the floor before shifting to the other, eyes fixed on the slip of stage they could see, and felt a horrible swell of guilt.

 

 He’d taken a couple of lovely ladies up on their offers at the start of the tour. It was had been short lived, but he had still done it. Bad habits were the hardest to kick, and Brian would be the first to admit that touring made them all too easy to fall back into. Especially now they were earning enough money to have the privacy of separate hotel rooms.

 

 He wasn’t going to pretend he hadn’t done it if - _when_ \- he was confronted with it. And he also wasn’t going to pretend that stopping wasn’t because of John - for all Roger's many faults, dishonesty was rarely one of them.

 

 Even if knew he wasn’t being quite honest with himself now.

 

 His usual tour activities had come crashing to a halt because of a four letter word that carried enough weight to scare him half to death. Roger would not run from it, but he'd rather take it all out on his drum kit than think too hard about it.

 

 Freddie would give him a right talking to about being honest with himself and to fuck everybody else. It would be honest advice from the heart, like it always was with Fred, and Roger appreciated that. He was his best friend after all, Roger trusted his judgement, he just needed to recover from how the realisation had thrown all his emotions into the air first.

 

 He had never claimed to be perfect.

 

 A deafening roar signalled their arrival and Roger jogged up onto the drum riser. He put all those thoughts and worries aside to give every ounce of his skill and professionalism, alongside his blood, sweat, and sometimes even tears, into his performance as he could.

 

 

* ***** *

 

 For someone with such big, strong hands as John, he had the most gentle fingers.

 

 It was probably because he spent most of his childhood building crystal radio sets and tinkering with speakers. Fiddly work that needed a gentleness and a patience that Roger, an archetypal drummer, had never been all that good at.

 

 He'd seen John treat tape and sound boards and Freddie's cats all with the exact same gentleness. And yet there was something in the way he was holding Roger's hands now that had his breath catching.

 

 He'd played too hard again, blistering the skin on his palms that had not yet calloused over. They weren't bleeding like they used to when he was younger, but they were still sore as shit.

 

"It looks worse than it is," he told John quietly, watching as his thumb traced around the red welts on the heel of his hand.

 

"It looks pretty bad, Roge."

 

"Disinfect it, pop the blisters, and wrap it and I'll be fine."

 

 John made a sound of displeasure and laid Roger's hands in his lap, reaching for the First Aid Kit Brian had brought over to the corner of the dressing room they’d been left in. Roger had been snapping and snarling since he had come off stage, the adrenaline no longer covering how much his hands bloody hurt. The only one he hadn't snapped at had been John, because Roger knew he was more than familiar with how embarrassing and painful this was for a professional musician. He had seen John, back in the early days, swear and kick music stands over when playing bass for too long had taken the top layer of skin off his fingertips.

 

 John followed Roger's instructions carefully, not trying to dick around with distracting Roger from the agony of the Iodine and just letting him swear through it. He felt John's affection for him in the gentle, but firm, way he cared for his palms and then wrapped up his hands. Nodding along as Roger got out his anger by ranting about every little thing that had been annoying him.

 

 He hugged his hands to his chest once John was done, jutting out his chin to demand a kiss and smiling despite himself when John cupped his face in his gentle, gentle hands and pecked him on the lips once, twice, three times.

 

 Roger watched him go to get changed, laughing at something Ratty said to him, and felt warm and valued and very, very unworthy.

 

 

* ***** *

 

 Roger always had his kit set up so he could keep an eye on what the bassist was (or in some cases wasn't) doing. A band was only as good as the rhythm section, and for that to be any good they had to be on the same page.

 

 From almost the moment he had joined the band, John had been on and off the riser making sure one of them knew exactly what the other wanted. The music riding higher and higher between them until Roger had felt pushed for the first time in his life. Sometimes he felt like he was working to keep the band from spinning out of control from the sheer power coursing through the music from every direction.

 

 Maybe, Roger thought as John hopped off the riser to share Freddie's mic, that had been a sign of things to come.

 

 Even thinking _things to come_ would usually have had him laughing to himself in the middle of a concert. But, right now, he was a little distracted by trying not to let what was happening on stage in front of him affect his drumming.

 

 Freddie was swaying into John to let him sing into his mic, and then swaying back. Drawing John into leaning further and further forward each time in a give and take that was obviously meant to be sexual in a scandalous, audience titillating way.

 

 He had such a nice bum, John. Pert and round and just the right fit for Roger’s hands. The satin trousers he wore were showing it off lovely when he went onto his tiptoes in order to lean all the way forward and reach Freddie’s mic, a knowing grin on his face.

 

 Roger liked him for more than his bum, of course. After a few drinks he could - and had, to a very patient Brian - listed all the fantastic things about him, mostly remembering to leave out all the new experiences that came with being with a bloke. He didn’t miss the groupies one bit now he'd given them up, even if he did miss doing some things with them. Like eating girls out. It was fun and he was good at it, so what was not to like about it? It was intimate in a way sucking dick had not been; John had finally let him try it, and despite John falling apart beautifully Roger had known he had been mediocre at best - and Roger Taylor did not like being mediocre. Especially when he knew what his mouth could do somewhere else John enjoyed his attention.

 

 He caught his mind wandering and jolted back into the concert hall. He sent a prayer to the God he didn’t believe in to thank them for not letting Roger drag the song off on some wild tempo while he was thinking about doing, well...things.

 

 The only one who noticed the heavy thunk of Roger hitting the ride cymbal too hard was Brian, the perfectionist, shooting a look over his shoulder at Roger who was refusing to look at anyone.

 

 

* ***** *

 

 Roger trailed his fingertips up the gentle bump’s of John’s spine. He traced the curve of John’s shoulder blade as he nuzzled playfully into the back of his neck, following the path his fingers had just taken with kisses.

 

 He moved over him, slotting between John’s legs that opened so easily it made a tingle of warmth run through him. He peppered kisses over the dimples at his lower back, cupping his arse in both hands and squeezing. Roger dug in his thumbs and eased John's cheeks apart as he carried on kissing downwards, had been about to press the flat of his tongue between his cheeks when John tensed.

 

 Roger just managed to escape getting a knee to the chest when John flipped onto his back, scrambling up the bed and away from Roger.

 

“Deak…” Roger started, flailing to right himself when he almost slipped off the end of the bed.

 

“ _What_ ,” John demanded, those Midland’s vowels sweeping back into his accent, “the _bloody ‘ell_ was _that_!?”

 

“I was… I was going to give you a rim job?” Roger said, watching John’s eyes widen as his head jerk back in what was almost a recoil. “Look, I like eating girls out…”

 

“ _I’m not a girl_ ,” John snapped, and Roger braced himself. John had a vicious streak that was all the more cutting for its unpredictability. He could just as easily laugh something off as he could hit you where it hurt, and when it wasn’t directed at Roger he found it a bit of a turn on. Sadly, it was not one of those days. “If you want one I’m sure you know exactly where to find some groupie who’d be oh so glad to have your attention.”

 

 Roger knew that had been coming, but it still stung like a slap to the face. “John…”

 

“I am not a girl. You can pick up as many of them as you like, but it won’t change the fact I’m a man. And if that hurts your stupid, fragile rock star ego, then they're welcome to you…”

 

“I fucked up with the girls,” Roger admitted, cutting John off before he said something too close to home for the both of them. “Any...any rationalising or...whatever. Is just excuses…”

 

“I don’t want you to prostrate yourself before me, Roger.” John said carefully, all that fire burning low. “I don’t want why’s or anything like that. I don’t want sorry. I want...I just…Be honest with me. Please.”

 

“I try to be.”

 

“I know.”

 

“And I didn’t pick up...I don’t want to pretend you’re not a guy. To anyone.” Give it a few months, and if the attention wouldn’t crush John, Roger would probably stand on stage and tell everyone exactly what he felt about their bassist. “I’m not worried about whether what we have makes me less of a man or anything. I’m...I guess I...there’s things I miss about being with women,” he said hesitantly, trying to be honest but not too confident of the reaction he was going to get.

 

 John didn’t look angry or, God forbid, upset. In fact he didn’t look like much of anything, his expression open and yet giving nothing away.

 

 Roger cleared his throat and decided to take it as an invitation to continue. “I like eating girls out ‘cause I’m good at it. I miss it. And I thought about you and thought about how I could do it to you. You like when I do stuff to you so I thought…that it would be something you’d like?”

 

“I don’t want you to do that,” John said. Every line of him was screaming discomfort so Roger fumbled around on the floor to find John’s pyjama bottoms and handed them to him.

 

“I won’t,” he promised as John wriggled into them, getting up to find his own underwear and grab the cigarettes from the bedside table. He lit one standing at the side of the bed, holding it out to John as a peace offering. “I promise.”

 

 John watched him for a long, long a moment, eyes unreadable. Roger was just starting to worry that he was about to get kicked out when John took the cigarette from him. “Okay.”

 

 John alternated between letting the cigarette burn down between his fingers and his lips, watching Roger rapidly smoke half of his own. It was unsettling, to be watched like that, and Roger started to worry again that he was about to be chucked out. “Do you want me to leave?”

 

“No. No, Roge,” John said quietly, looking suddenly embarrassed as he held out the ashtray for him.

 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Roger offered, not really wanting to but prepared to try if it got that look off of John’s face.

 

“God no,” he huffed, smiling at Roger who apparently hadn’t been able to keep the relief off of his face. John sighed, stubbing out what was left of his cigarette before rubbing his hands over his face. “Let’s - well, you can go if you like…”

 

“ _Deaky_. You know I’m not just here to fuck. You know that.”

 

 John let his hands fall into his lap, suddenly very interested in the checked print of his pyjama bottoms as he spoke in that same shy voice he’d had when they had first met. “Let’s just hang out and watch TV. Like we did before…Like we did before.”

 

“Yeah of course,” Roger said, darting over to leave his cigarette in the ashtray so he could hop around the room looking for his clothes. “Yes of course, Deaks! You know I love nothing better than to rip into weird Japanese TV shows.”

 

“If you're going to do that you can get a bottle of wine out of the mini bar.” Roger winced as he wiggled into his trousers, glancing sheepishly over at John who was giving him a knowing smile. “Oh, don't look at me like that. You're forgiven.”

 

“Good. I won't have run out and get you a fancy bottle of plonk.”

 

 John shook his head, settling back against the pillows while Roger pinged about the room getting the wine and finding the corkscrew. He opened the bottle with a pop and a flourish, making a show of sniffing the cork and commenting on the bouquet to get a giggle out of John, his ever willing audience. They didn’t bother with glasses, or at least Roger didn’t, being careful not to spill anything when he climbed back onto the bed.

 

 He made sure the remote and his cigarettes were in reach before settling against headboard, turning his head to plant an automatic kiss on John’s hair when he leant his head against Roger’s shoulder.

 

“I’m flattered. Got _Roger Meddows Taylor_ prepared to run around after me like this.”

 

“Darling,” he said in his best Freddie voice, waving the bottle in the air, “I would run _anywhere_ for booze.”

 

 Which was true. Or enough of a truth that he could honestly say he wasn’t trying to cover up how close he had been to running around Osaka at midnight looking for a nice bottle of wine for John.

 

 

 If he ordered room service for breakfast the next morning it was because, well...because they were in a rock band and why the hell not! And if he quietly called reception while John was still asleep, it was because he had sunk over half a bottle of wine the night before and Roger was always sympathetic to the hungover. The warmth he felt when he saw the sleepy surprise on John’s face when he saw the food was just a perk.

 

 Enough of a perk that it put Roger in a enough good mood that he swapped sides in the long running What Music Gets Played On The Bus argument. Going from leading the ‘no fucking Carpenters’ camp to join Freddie in insisting John get as equal a choice as anyone else in the band. Not that they had anyone to argue against, Brian was reading and said he didn’t care what they did, but that was beside the point.

 

“We’re a band. We should respect one another’s musical choices,” was his reason when asked about it, and doubting noises had been everyone’s reaction. Well, Freddie and Brian’s reaction, John had been too busy rushing to put the record on before anyone changed their mind.

 

 Roger was frequently on his best behaviour - in fact compared to some musicians they had met on the road he was a saint even when he was in a bad mood. But even he would admit that for the next few weeks he was being extra saintly.

 

 In sound check he became the voice of compromise from the back of the stage when things got fraught amongst themselves or with the promoters. He kept the people who thought they knew better out of the way while John was fixing the input in one of the amps, and made himself pay attention whenever John started talking business. He even volunteered of his own accord to make the sandwiches for lunch. More than once! Buttering right to the corners of the bread just how John liked. And then got snapped at by Brian for only ever making two cups of tea.

 

(“There are four people in this room, you know?”

 

Roger handed John his cup and then made a show of peering around the room. “So there is,” he had said with a smile as he dropped down next to John and put his legs over his lap.

 

“You’re such a bitch,” Freddie had said, but he had been laughing so it had been a compliment.)

 

 Carrying John’s bags from the buses and cars to the hotels would have been a bit much, and offering to carry his bass into the venues was out of the question. But he could go out and find some of those weak Silk Cut cigarettes Freddie smoked.

 

 John was a nervous smoker. It was one of the few bits of the rock n roll lifestyle that Freddie had let get to him, and, if John was pacing more frantically than usual, Freddie would usually offer him a cigarette to try and calm him down. Roger had tried to offer his cigarettes before they had gotten together because, to be honest, he had wanted John’s attention, but his Marlboro’s had always made John feel sick before a gig.

 

 This time, in a stuffy back stage in Canberra, Roger swooped in when Freddie made to offer a cigarette to an anxiously pacing John. He flicked the bottom of the carton to bring one up, holding it out with a barely there flourish for John to take. He glanced over at Roger, pulling up short when he saw the packaging on the carton, the nervous expression dropping from his face to be replaced by something Roger couldn’t quite read.

 

 John took the cigarette, flicking it thoughtfully between his fingers before putting it between his lips and leaning in to let Freddie light it for him.

 

 Freddie tossed the match away and gave Roger a sly little smile tinged with approval that Roger couldn’t help thinking he didn’t deserve. This was stuff he should have been doing for the past year, not just because John had yelled at him. Freddie didn’t give him long to dwell on all that though, starting to shadow box at him to get them both pumped for the show. They dodged and danced and laughed, ducking around Brian who was off in his own world trying to tune his guitar against the noise of a full house that was rattling window panes in the dressing.

 

 He was Roger fucking Taylor, the drummer (and vocalist) from Queen. He’d make this right even if it ruined him.

 

 

* ***** *

 

“Hey Deaks, got a minute?”

 

“Depends,” John said, voice muffled from where he was leaning over Roger’s balcony to get a look at the pool.

 

 It was a great view, both the pool and John’s arse. Roger had placed himself firmly on the other side of the room because it had been a while since they had slept together and he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch. And he wanted to touch, very badly.

 

“Can we have uuhh...talk?”

 

 John reacted exactly how most people would when who they were involved with wanted a ‘talk’. He straightened slowly, taking a moment before turning a look of trepidation on Roger, chewing on his bottom lip as he clutched onto the rail behind him. “Sure.”

 

 Roger hesitated, then moved over to sit on the couch. John followed, sitting up the other end looking like a kid about to get told off by his mum.

 

“So…” Roger started, swearing softly when he patted himself down for cigarettes and couldn’t find any. “So. As much as we both want to be very English about this and not talk about it, I think we need to talk about...us.”

 

 John made a noise that pretty much summed up how Roger felt, but he nodded. “Yes.”

 

“I don’t know what I’m doing with all this. And I know you don’t either. We fell from friends into an ‘us’ and didn’t change how we...Well, are we even an ‘us’?”

 

“Are you really asking me that?” John grumbled, something unpleasant passing across his face but whatever it was got swallowed down quickly. “Yes, we are an ‘us’.”

 

“Okay! Good. Brilliant,” he went to pat himself down for his cigarettes again and sighed. “So, we went from friends to together so smoothly that we didn’t change how we behaved, you know? Acting like we were just shagging when it wasn’t that, which - _which isn’t an excuse for me basically cheating on you but it’s why I did it. It was really fucking stupid of me and I hate that I hurt you._ ”

 

 John took a moment to consider all that, nervously carding his fingers through the ends of his hair. “I...I know. I know you didn’t mean it. I know what you’re like.” That hurt. Roger couldn’t deny that it was true, but it still hurt to hear John say it so matter-of-factly. To have someone he felt so much for not expect _more_ from him. “I don’t say it to hurt you Roger. I really…” John sighed, letting his hands fall limply into his lap. “I kept telling myself that because I didn’t want to get hurt. It’s not fair to you, you’re not this...empty, selfish person, but you’re you. You’re beautiful. And I’m…”

 

“Oh no no no. You know exactly how good you look. Don’t try that,” Roger cut in, then had to think about if he had ever actually told John just how pretty he was, or just what one of his big silly smiles did to him.

 

 John was blushing when Roger took a look at him, trying to hide behind his hair. Roger reached over to push it out of the way, tucking it behind his ear and letting his fingers trail over his cheek when he pulled his hand away. “I won’t promise the world, ‘cause neither of us can tell the future. But I promise that right now you’re what I want, and if in the future my eye or my dick or my heart wanders, I’ll tell you right away. I don’t want you hurt because you’re my friend before everything else. If this between us ever jeopardises that, I’d stop it. ‘Cause you mean the world to me. All of you rotters do. But you… mean a lot in a different way. And I can’t lose you as a friend, or as that guy who plays bass for Queen.”

 

 John muttered something, the words lost but the bitter edge to his tone clear as day. Roger was ready to get the riot act read to him, and would have taken it too, so he was surprised when John was all sweetness when he glanced over at Roger. “I understand. It’s the same for me. I care about you enough to let you go if I have to, but I don’t plan on it,” he said with that quiet conviction of his that Roger admired so much. “And - for my part - I’ll think of you as, you uhh…” he rubbed at his leg with the heel of his hand, “As you deserve. Not as... "

 

"Deaks, you didn’t drive me to shag them.”

 

“We can't just ignore…”

 

“ _John!_ ” he wanted John to think better of him, of course he did, but he wanted to at least try to earn it first.

 

“We could both be a bit better at this, Roge.”

 

 Trust Deaky to be so dam rational. Trust him to be so astute and forgiving. Roger wanted to say I love you, but it didn’t feel right. Those were three overused and often insincere words that he put little stock in. Love was shown in word and deed - Roger believed that more than he believed most things.

 

 They were imperfect people who’d fuck this up sooner or later, in one way or another. But right now John was everything he didn’t think he’d ever deserve to have, nothing he thought he’d ever really want. And that was all before you factored in that he was a bloke, which was unexpected if not unwelcome.

 

 But… God, he was pretty. He was stunning on stage, and lovely off it, but it always struck Roger most when he was like this; sitting at the other end of a sagging couch with one leg tucked under him, sleeves of his ratty cardigan pulled down over his hands that he was always trying to hide. Roger reached out to grasp a hand, needing John to not want to hide a single part of himself from him, and froze when he caught the look in his eyes.

 

 John could give nothing away when he felt like it, so to see what was probably plastered all over his face reflected back at him frightened Roger to the core at the same time as making him feel ten feet tall. “I’m going to make the best go of this I can, Deaks. Fuck everybody else.”

 

 John smiled at that Freddie-ism, reaching out to take Roger’s hand that was hanging in the air between them as he agreed, “Fuck everybody else.”

 

 

* ***** *

 

 They were flying after the gig in Melbourne.

 

 Freddie had been magisterial, the crowd wrapped around his little finger from almost the first song and he had them whipped into such a frenzy that the air had been electric. It lifted the band, Roger feeling like for that hour and a half they had become something bigger. Something… something _great_.

 

 Even Brian let it get to him, sinking a whole beer before whooping and hurling the can at the wall. It startled laughter out of Freddie who was thrumming with the energy of a whole crowd, and he let go of John to run over to join Brian in making a racket.

 

 Roger went to find his own beer and jumped up on the arm of the sofa to drink it. Freddie whooped when he saw him and Roger threw his tired arms up into the air in triumph, beer sloshing out of the can and almost hitting John as it landed on the floor with a splat.

 

“Ooohoho  _WOOPS_ ,” Roger cackled. He handed the can over to John who pulled a face but still took a drink, turning to watch Freddie jump on Brian and nearly knock them both over. He laughed, almost spilling beer down himself, and Roger didn't even care that he was staring.

 

 He could see right down the inside of his shirt (if you could call it that - it was cut so low it was almost something Roger would wear). It wasn't as generous a landscape as the girls tops he used to look down, but he liked the slip of smooth, pale chest he could see nonetheless. Liked the gentle curl of the few locks of hair stuck to the sheen of sweat on his skin even better.

 

 Roger dropped off the sofa to stand next to John, holding his gaze as he slipped the can from between his fingers to drop it somewhere, forgotten. “I think there's some…” he started, but there was a warmth in John's eyes when he looked down at Roger that made him snap his mouth closed.

 

“I've thought about it. What you wanted to do,” he said quietly. “And you can do it if you want.”

 

 Roger blinked at him, utterly clueless as to what he meant. “...it?” he muttered, taking in a sharp breath when he realised what he meant. “ _Oh!_ ”

 

“Is Deaky whispering sweet nothings into your ear, darling?” Freddie said as he swept in. He threw an arm around John, a devilish look in his eye like he knew something Roger didn't.

 

 Roger did his best to pull himself together to coo, “Well, he’s a sweet boy.”

 

If John rolling his eyes as he was steered away didn’t make it clear that Roger hadn’t quite managed an even tone, Freddie’s raucous laughter would have done it.

 

 

* ***** *

 

 John was flushed pink all over. He always was when they shagged, and Roger was yet to not be enamoured by it, pushing John’s hair out of the way to trace the flush on his shoulders with his lips.

 

 John made a content sound, tucking his chin into his chest to give Roger better access. “You played really well tonight.”

 

 Roger smiled into his neck at that clumsy flattery, hooking his ankle around John's to pull himself closer. “We’re a sonic volcano, baby.”

 

 John’s eyes sparkled in amusement as he settled his cheek on the pillow his arms were wrapped around. Roger smacked a kiss to his cheekbone, moving to kiss his lips when John tilted his head to ask for one.

 

 Roger pulled away to move over his back, holding himself up on one arm as he traced a line between his shoulder blades. “I'd thought you'd have made the obvious joke by now.”

 

“You thinking it was enough.”

 

 Roger snorted, ducking his head to kiss over the breadth of his back, sucking a faint mark onto the ball of John's shoulder that faded as he sat back to look at it.

 

 He took his time making his way down John's back, laying it on a little thick but he was going to make the most of this. Roger kissed over his sides, pressing his smile into John's skin when it made him laugh, curling his fingers over John's sides to feel him breathe as Roger lavished attention on the curve of his lower back.

 

 John fidgeted, getting his arms settled as he made room for Roger to kneel between his legs. Roger sat back on his heels to look over John's back, smiling to himself when he caught him pressing his hips down into the bed. Roger swept his hands down John's sides and over his hips when he bent to kiss the dimples just above the swell of his arse. He let them linger, soaking up the thrum of anticipation coming from John, before pressing his thumbs into the crease where his arse met his legs and ducked down to kiss the backs of his thighs.

 

 John choked on a noise of complaint, obviously trying to stifle it. Roger felt a smug sense of pride about that, even if the noise had gone straight to his dick. He gave it a quick tug, resting his free hand on John's arse before giving it a light smack.

 

 John jerked, a moan bursting out of him that was so unusually loud that it startled Roger for a moment. But only for a moment. He smacked the other cheek just as lightly, watching John cling to the pillow as he squirmed. “Roge…” he whined, seemingly unable to stop himself moaning loudly when Roger grabbed his bum in both hands and squeezed gently.

 

“Yo’alright Deaks?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Still good for it?”

 

 John pressed his face into the pillow, breathing deeply before picking his head up to answer. “Yes.”

 

 Roger had to let his legs hang off the end of the bed as he got himself comfortable between John’s thighs. He shouldered them further apart, dropping a kiss to the impossibly soft skin of his inner thigh when John buried his head into his arms and shuddered.

 

 He pushed his hands slowly up the inside of John’s legs, covering every inch of him he could reach in sucking kisses. Roger grabbed his bum again, sitting up slightly as he slipped his thumbs between John’s cheeks and pulled them apart.

 

 John shook all over, his legs kicking up in the air as he pulled away and then pushed back into Roger’s grip. A high pitched noise vibrated through him when Roger stroked the pad of his thumb over his hole. “Don’t stare,” Roger heard him say, voice muffled and quiet, so he laid another soft kiss to base of his spine.

 

“You sure you’re sure about…”

 

“ _Bloody hell,_ Taylor,” John snapped and it made Roger smile. He always liked ruffling feathers, and it was an especially good look on John.

 

“ _Roger that_ ,” he drawled quietly, John's huff of frustration turning into a breathless gasp when Roger - never a shrinking violet - licked his hole.

 

 He tasted of hotel soap and clean water. Roger pulled a face at first, much preferring the taste of skin, but had to concede that a good wash after the gig had probably been a good idea. 

 

“ _Oh God_ ,” John breathed, tipping his head back with a sigh when Roger slowly run the flat of his tongue from just behind his balls to his tailbone.

 

 He was winging it, Roger could admit that. It was hard to tell what was working as John seemed about to vibrate out of his skin from embarrassment as much as arousal. He tried some of his usual moves, and then made some up as he went along.

 

“ _Ah_ ,” John gasped when Roger rolled his tongue over his hole. He rocked his hips back when Roger pulled away to check he was okay, so he had to do it again. And again. And again until John was almost screaming into the pillow he had clamped over his face.

 

 He did scream when Roger pulled away to catch his breath, smacking his foot into the back of Roger’s leg in protest. Roger gave him a ringing smack on the arse for that, filing away the way that made John squirm for later as he tugged his hips up to get better access.

 

 John went silent when Roger sucked lightly on his hole, pushing himself up on his elbows to let his head hang between his shoulders before laying down again as if he didn’t know what to do with himself. Roger scraping his teeth over the red mark on the cheek he had slapped had John tipping his head back and moaning, not giving a damn about who might hear him for once in his life.

 

 When Roger ran the flat of his tongue over John’s hole again it felt loose, relaxed, and he was about to pull away to slip a finger into him when he tested the give with his tongue.

 

 John went as rigid as a board, whining a little desperately as his hips twisted in Rogers grip. Roger pulled away, scared that he had hurt him, and nearly got smacked in the face when John flailed a hand back towards him. He threaded their fingers together when he worked out that John wanted Roger to take his hand, squeezing it when John buried his face back into the pillow.

 

 It was a bit tricky to get right in there one handed, but if John needed to hold his hand then Roger would fucking make do, alright? He kneaded his arse cheek with his free hand as he worked his tongue into John again and again, only realising John had come when he melted into the bed with a sigh.

 

 He pulled away slowly, kissing over John’s bum again when he got up onto his knees to give his throbbing dick a much needed tug. John was still flopped out, his hand limp in Roger’s grasp but he still squeezed back when Roger tightened his grip on his fingers.

 

“Deaks,” Roger said gently, leaning over him. “How you doing, mate?”

 

 John pushed himself up onto an elbow very slowly, trying to blow his hair out of his face before pushing it out of the way. “Yes. I...yes. I am…” he blew out a breath and then giggled. “ _I’m doing all right_.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yes,” he pushed at Roger so he could roll onto his back and out of the wet spot, letting out a huff of contentment as he threw his arm above his head to stretch.

 

 Roger kissed his hand instead of kissing him on the mouth, swallowing down a groan when he got a heavy lidded, blissed out smile in return. John made a content sound and stretched again, slipping his fingers out from Roger’s grip to reach between them and curl his fist around Roger’s dick.

 

 It didn’t take much for him to cum. John’s firm grip and his nails scraping bluntly over Roger’s nipples were enough to have him adding to the mess smeared all over John’s stomach in no time.

 

 Roger collapsed down on the other side of the wet spot to catch his breath. He threw his arm out to rest on John’s chest, then tangled their legs together because he felt the need to keep on touching him.

 

 John was half asleep, looking younger than ever and a little goofy. Lovely even though he was sprawled out on cheap cotton hotel sheets with cum all over him. Roger thought it just made look even more like some decadent Pre-Raphaelite painting. Not that he’d ever admit to that of course.

 

 Roger caught himself falling asleep and shook himself awake, poking at John until he was conscious enough to get up and let Roger strip the bed. He bundled up the bottom sheet and dumped it in the corner of the room before herding John into the bathroom.

 

 Roger let him fiddle about with the shower settings as he gave his mouth a thorough clean, pulling a face as himself while he breathed through the burning of the complimentary mouthwash. He fought with the shower curtain to get under the water with John, pushing him back against the cold tiles to finally give him a deep, lingering kiss. And deep lingering kisses tended to have one effect on twenty-something year olds; they somehow managed not to slip and die while they rutted against one another until Roger took them both in hand and they came again before the shower started to run cold, moans muffled by one another's mouths.

 

 At some point in the very early morning they got to sleep, curled up with one another on top of the sheets. But it had come after they had both decided that the bed was a write off so went crashing through the hotel corridors at 2am trying to find Roger’s room with his pristine sheets.

 

 They got turned about and went around in circles, almost delirious with exhaustion and the high of good sex, shushing one another loud enough to disturb people when one of them had a giggling fit. They even almost burst into some strangers room before Roger remembered they were on the wrong floor and they legged it.

 

 Roger had been laughing when he took a running jump onto the bed after they finally found his room, eyes already closing when John crawled on after him. He pulled him close, pushing the neck of the hotel bathrobe out of the way so he could press his face into John's neck, slipping off to the sounds of whatever the hell Freddie was getting up to next door.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to Maddie for ideas, checking this over, and reminding me how anatomy worked. 
> 
> Do I take forever to do anything because I can't ever shut up? Yes. Do I appreciate every one of you who's left a comment? HELL YEAH.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so, the movie and irl time lines and events merge here a little because, in the spirit of Freddie Mercury, _I'm the author and I can do as I like_. *flicks down sunglasses* *heely's away*

 

 

**-1984/5**

 

 

 The car bumped the curb as Roger hurried to pull over, half out of his seat before he remembered to turn the engine off.

 

 He cursed how stupidly large the Land Rover was as he crawled over the gear stick to get to John who was curled up in the passenger seat, face buried in his knee’s as his whole body shook with sobs.

 

“John, John. Try to breathe mate. Try to breathe,” Roger said as gently as he could, wincing at the panicked tremor in his own voice. He ignored the handbrake sticking into his leg as he pulled John against him, running a hand up and down his arm in the hope it would soothe him. “It’s okay. I’m here, I’m right here. It’s okay”

 

“ _It’s not_.”

 

“It is. It will be.”

 

 John managed to pick his head up, scrubbing at his already red and splotchy face with the back of his hand as he said, “What are we going to do without Freddie?”

 

“It’ll be a few years. And then he’ll be back! He needs us, he knows he does. It’s...It’ll just be a few years. We’ll get on with solo projects and…”

 

“What am _I_ going to do without Freddie?”

 

 That stung a little. For all they were to one another, him and John, and for all of his musical success, John still leant on Freddie. A lot.

 

 They didn't always agree musically, and had agreed early on to keep their personal and professional lives carefully separate. If Roger didn't think one of John's songs should be on the album he would fight it, and John would force Roger to play with taped drums or to sing lines he hated because neither of them wanted special treatment from the other. That wasn’t to say Roger never encouraged John, he had always wanted John’s advice and trusted his input, but Freddie was the one who had encouraged and supported and helped him from the first. Had worked to build John up from the quiet little thing who had first joined the band in to the rhythmic powerhouse he was now.

 

 Freddie had been there for John since he was nineteen, little more than a kid, and now he’d taken a solo deal and fucked off to Munich without so much as a backwards glance.

 

 Roger could have strangled him.

 

“We’ll work it out, Deaks. We’ll work it out.”

 

“I can’t...I can’t,” John took a deep breath, scrubbing at his eyes again. “I can’t go solo like you and Bri. I can’t...I can’t go off... I can’t _sing_. What can I do…”

 

“Alright,” Roger huffed, cupping John’s face in his hands. “Whatever I do, you’ll be there too. If I record an album, you’ll work on it too. If you get asked to help mix something, I’ll be right there with you.”

 

“Roge…”

 

“We’re the rhythm section. We’ve always got one another's backs. I’m no Freddie Mercury but if you write me a song I’ll fucking sing it.”

 

“Even if it’s disco?” John asked, voice still clogged with tears but something like a smile in his eyes.

 

 Roger rolled his eyes and pressed a kiss to the side of John’s head. “I’ll think about it at least,” he said, smiling when John laughed and looped his arm around his neck as he pressed his face into Roger's chest.

 

 If he ever saw Freddie again he was going to kick the shit out of him.

 

* ***** *

 

 

 John was drunk.

 

 Roger had seen him more drunk than this. He talked a mile a minute and danced with even more confidence than usual when he wasn't falling through plate glass doors. John tended to get wild and silly and loud when he was drunk, he never got morose like he was now.

 

 He slurred darkly to himself as Roger half dragged him across the room to dump him onto the couch. He wriggled and shifted around before giving up with a sigh, blinking up at Roger as he muttered something indistinct.

 

“What was that, Deaks?”

 

“D...d’ya fuck me?”

 

“Think you’re a bit drunk for that.”

 

“You can f’yer want.”

 

“I think I can hold off,” Roger assured him gently, giving his knee a squeeze, “You be okay if I go and get you some water?”

 

 John grunted so Roger turned to head into the kitchen, pulling up short when John grabbed his wrist. “Don’t leave me.”

 

“I’m just…” Roger started to explain, and then realised he was talking to an emotional drunk. “I’m not going to leave.”

 

“M’sorry I’m not better at...bass an’ writing an’ stopping fights.”

 

 Roger perched on the edge of the coffee table and took John’s hands in his. “You are just what we needed. The perfect missing piece for the band. We couldn’t have done better, we still can’t.”

 

 John fell silent, breathing heavily as his drunk mind cycled over that. “If I’d gone back to uni I’d not be drunk on your sofa now.”

 

“An’ my life would be poorer for it. Also I think you bought all the furniture in this room…”

 

“You’d have...and Freddie…”

 

“Don’t flatter yourself into thinking anything you could have done would have kept him around.”

 

 John huffed and rolled onto his front, clearly meaning to sleep where he was, letting Roger’s hand go as he muttered, “Y’d have a pretty blonde wife an be happier as well…”

 

 Roger stared at him, unable to even splutter in shock he was so horrified by that.

 

 To even _think_ that Roger wasn’t…

 

 He stood, stomping into the kitchen to grab two glasses of water and thunked them down on the coffee table, purposefully not using coasters because it always irritated John and he was feeling petty. Although not pretty enough to leave him without draping the blanket from the back of the sofa over him.

 

 Roger was still angry enough the next morning to storm right out of front door with only a perfunctory glance at John to make sure he was still alive. He was, thankfully, and one of the glassed had been drained so Roger didn’t feel bad about leaving him.

 

 He spent the morning wandering around the Science Museum, his neat hair and one of John’s cardigans mostly stopping him from being recognised. He hid in the club house of their golf club in the afternoon, chatting with the other rich and famous people who were hiding from their own problems in a place where no-one would try and ask them about it. 

 

 The sulk he absolutely was not having started to wind down about mid afternoon so he went home, sitting in the car staring at the front of the house for about ten minutes before finally heading inside.

 

 John wasn’t anywhere to be found on the ground floor. Roger was halfway up the stairs to check their bedroom when John appeared from the doorway to the basement music room.

 

 He looked rough. Pale in that grey, sickly way with some fantastic bags under his eyes, his hair an absolute mess.

 

 They looked at one another, John pulling the sleeves of his old Space Invaders jumper over his hands as took a deep breath. “I shouldn’t have got that drunk last night, I’m sorry.”

 

“You were shit faced.”

 

“I’m sorry. I don’t remember what I was saying, but I think I said something that upset you and I’m sorry for that too.”

 

“You claimed Freddie wouldn’t have gone if you’d been ‘better’, whatever the fuck that was supposed to mean. Which I think is pretty fucking arrogant of you if you meant it.”

 

“I think that was just the drink talking.”

 

 Roger could tell that was the truth, John was too sincere to lie well. He nodded to himself, descending a few steps while he mulled over what he was going to say next. “You also said I’d be happier with a wife than I am with you.”

 

 To his credit John looked a little taken aback by that, “I…”

 

“Do you think I’m not happy with you?”

 

“No.”

 

“Have I done _any_ single thing to make you think I’m not happy?”

 

“Of course not!”

 

“‘Cause that’s not drunk ramblings, John. That means something, and I want to know what the fuck you meant.”

 

 John sighed. “It’s not one thing. It’s not really anything,” he glanced at Roger, looking a lot like his doom was looming over him. “It’s never been like it is for other couples, and sometimes I feel terrible that you can’t hold my hand or…”

 

“It wouldn’t be easier if we came out. We’re not doing that, the stress would kill you.”

 

“I know. I’m not… you hide yourself away because of…”

 

“I’m not - I’m _not_ martyring myself by being with you. How _dare_ …”

 

“It’s not that Roger. Fucking Hell.” John put his head in his hands, dragging his fingers down his face as he paced to the wall and back. He turned to look at Roger, something sharp in his eyes as he flung his arms open. “I’m sad. Okay. I’m sad, and I feel inadequate right now.”

 

“If this is about _Freddie_ ...”

 

“Will You Listen.” John shouted, something so unusual for him that even the echo of his voice sounded surprised. “It’s not your fault, it’s got nothing to do with what you or anyone else has or hasn’t done. It just _is_. Would our lives be easier if we’d left it as a dalliance while recording? Who knows. But I didn’t want that, and neither did you. And I’m really happy we didn’t.”

 

“Me too!”

 

“Good!” John snapped back, a smile pulling at the edge of his mouth as the ridiculousness of the situation hit them both.

 

 Roger shook his head, heaving a sigh as he hopped down the last few steps and made his was over to John. “One week on our own and we’re already throwing fits.”

 

“We need to find something to join forces against,” John said, reaching out for Roger’s hand. “I don’t think you’d be happier with a wife, because I’m a shining light in your life,” he smiled when Roger laughed, and gave his hand a squeeze. “I’m sorry I said it, and I’m so sorry it hurt you. It...I’m sad cause of the...of the situation, and that’s not something I should turn on you.”

 

“You didn’t take it out on me. You got crying drunk is what you did,” Roger watched John wince and tugged him into a hug. “I’m limiting your intake. No more of that. Drummer’s orders.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Drummer’s second order is to tell me when you get sad, not sit in the kitchen drinking tequila straight. You fucking animal.”

 

“Sorry.”

 

“Things are difficult for all of us. And…I may have overreacted a little.”

 

“You didn’t throw anything, so it’s fine.”

 

 Roger held him a tighter, nuzzling into his hair to whisper into his ear. “And just for the record, you’re very pretty.”

 

“What?”

 

“You said a ‘pretty wife’ last night. You’re not my wife but you’re still very pretty.”

 

“ _Roge.”_

 

 He held John at arm’s length, smiling at the colour that was making an attempt to come back to his cheeks. “I have dam good taste!”

 

 John’s eyes darted none too subtly down to Roger’s green trousers. “Hmmm.”

 

“And what the fuck do you leave in the house in half the time?”

 

“It’s called fashion,” John said with such complete seriousness, his tone so bone dry, that it made Roger tip his head back and laugh.

 

 

* ***** *

 

 

 John had gone into the eighties swinging. His confidence had grown steadily throughout the seventies, both personally and musically, but taking control of band finances had seemed to make something click.

 

 He had always had a biting sarcasm that hid just underneath his painful shyness, and an ability to dig his heels in that was so subtle you didn't realise he was doing it until you were already starting to get worn down. With confidence came a more forceful version of his personality; he never lost his modesty but he seemed to finally realise his worth and was going to make sure no-one else forgot it. He could take on Brian's forceful strive for perfection as easily as he could promoters and businessmen who were trying to dump a bad deal on a band with no proper manager, and Roger adored it.

 

 The sweet, humble, level headed boy that had captured Roger so wholly was still there though, and so was his vulnerability.

 

 There was a lot of Band business to sort out what with the 'break' Queen was on. Things had to be put on hold or money had to be shifted and Roger had encouraged John to throw himself into it. He helped where he could, and put up with John taking almost constant late night calls from the States when they weren’t over there sorting out all their American subsidiary companies.

 

 Anything to get John doing _something._ He was almost as bad at being idle as Roger was, and that was when hurts and  _what if's_ weren't hanging them both. Roger hadn’t even complained about Brian graciously leaving them to it, as far as he was concerned the more work he and John had to do, the better.

 

 Business (thankfully for Roger’s sanity - he loved activity but had discovered he was allergic to office hour’s) was finite even for a world renowned rock band. As soon as the last form had been signed and the last hand had been shaken, Roger had whisked them off to the Italian Alps to get them as far away from everything Queen as possible.

 

 Also, after working his bum off for months, Roger hadn’t been opposed to getting snowed in with his man, a roaring fire, and a bottle of schnapps.

 

 Sadly the schnapps hadn’t lasted until the first snow storm. Nor had half the case of good wine Roger had ordered up to the chalet. He hid the rest away. Not because he was worried that they were hitting the bottle too hard, but because he didn’t want it to get that far.

 

 

 John came scampering in from the balcony in a flurry of snow and a burst of ice cold air. Roger yelled in protest, wrapping the blanket tighter around him as the fire shivered in the grate.

 

 The coffee table was sidestepped with John’s usual easy grace and he flopped down onto the thick carpet with a gentle _oof_. A sound so charming that it almost made up for him letting all the heat out.

 

“It’s got up to three feet I think,” John said, stretching out his fingers towards the fire.

 

“Good thing I filled up the larder with delicious things.”

 

“Delicious things you can’t cook.”

 

“I’m here for moral support and to look good.”

 

 John rolled his head to smile up at Roger. The trip out into the cold had put a bright flush on his cheeks that was almost as lovely as the carefree sparkle in his eyes. A sparkle that Roger had been missing for a long time before all thishad happened.

 

 Roger, an expert by now in not spilling his drinks while doing stupid shit, held up his glass and slowly slipped off the couch to lay next to him.

 

“Very graceful.”

 

“Thank you, I try.”

 

 John’s eyes flicked over Roger’s face, an open admiration in them that always made Roger feel like he was floating a foot above the ground. He supposed the fire was lighting him up beautifully, warm lighting tended to, but it was still nice to get that reaction after being looked at for so long.

 

 Not that he didn’t still find himself getting caught up in John at least once a day.

 

 Like now, his lithe body sprawled out on the carpet, one foot flat on the floor and the other long leg flung out with a perfect carelessness. He had half unzipped his jumper so the line of his throat was exposed, and Roger watched the tendons shift under his soft skin as John turned his face back towards the fire.

 

 There was not a single worry or care on his shoulders, Roger realised. He was just happy to be here on the floor with Roger while snow fell outside, not doing much of anything.

 

 Roger slipped his drink under the couch, rolling onto his side to smack a kiss to John’s neck. He jumped and tried to turn to Roger, but he just half laid on John and kissed his neck again, and again, holding John when he tried to push Roger away through his fit of giggles.

 

“Roge _...get off._ ”

 

“Found something delicious that’s not in the larder.”

 

“No!”

 

 Roger got both hands on John’s waist, shoving one under his jumper to press against his burning hot skin. “A real delicacy.”

 

“That’s creepy,” John said, no longer trying to push Roger away when he scraped his teeth over his skin.

 

 Roger sat up, curling an arm around John’s head as he leant over him to give him a kiss. “Love you,” tumbled from his mouth before he could stop himself, and was eternally glad when John didn’t say it back. Roger could only bare a spoken declaration of love if nothing else would do to show it, and what could have showed John’s love for him more than hiding the blush on Roger’s cheeks with his hands as he pulled him in for a kiss.

 

“Is there really three foot of snow out there already?”

 

“Yep. The furniture on the balcony is almost covered!”

 

“Huh.” Roger settled back to lay on his side, hand still inside of John’s jumper. “How about we find some things to snack on in front of the fire, then go and investigate the snow, and,” he waggled his eyebrows for effect, “afterwards we can huddle for warmth.”

 

“Sounds like an excellent plan,” John said softly, turning to Roger. “As long as you go and get the food.”

 

“Urgh!” Roger huffled, flopping onto his back, “You expect me to make the plans _and_ put them into action as well?”

 

“Yes.” John said simply. “I’ll suck your dick if you do.”

 

 Roger weighed the pros-and-cons of that offer carefully. Then he downed the rest of his drink and hopped to his feet in such a smooth motion it made John chuckle, laughing and applauding when Roger took his bows as he hurried from the room.

 

 

* ***** *

 

 

“Is Belisha okay?”

 

Hearing one of Freddie’s nicknames had Roger pulling up short, blinking at Elton before glancing over at where John was sat fiddling with the levels.

  

 They had been sunning themselves in the back garden of Roger’s Surrey house that morning, trying to decide if they had wanted to go and sun themselves further in Bali or in Spain. It had been the height of laziness and decadence, but after working their arses off for thirteen years even Roger had thought a bit of sitting around wasn't a bad thing.

 

 But then Elton John had been on the phone asking if Roger could come and take a look at a song that wasn’t quite working.

 

 If not for the slightly frazzled edge to his voice Roger would have thought it was anything from sympathy for out of work musicians to Elton checking up on them. That stressed tone was one he knew well, it was the sound of a man who had been listening to the same set of notes for days in a row and had begun to hear them in his dreams.

 

 So they had piled into one of Roger’s more rock star cars (the Ferrari he hadn’t managed to set fire to) and headed in to London.

 

 They had been purposefully separating themselves from the music business for a while now. It had been a massive part of Roger’s life, and nearly all of John’s adult life, so it had not always been easy, but it was something they both agreed they needed to do. To poke their heads out of the bubble and not live a life of blacked out windows, minders, and travelling via laundry lifts.

 

 It did not occur to Roger to be worried about how they would react to being in the studio, surrounded by musicians and industry talk all over again, until they were sat in traffic at Wandsworth Bridge. He had glanced over at John who had been pointing out a bakery on the other side of the road, one leg up on the dashboard and the other tucked under him, and had wondered if it was something that had occurred to him too.

 

 Roger needn’t have worried. They had come barrelling into the studio like they owned the place; sending people off to fetch coffee and different mics and basically changing nearly the whole recording set up before they had even listened to the song.

 

 Elton had taken it all in his stride. No one had ever claimed Queen weren’t diva’s in the studio, mainly because they had always said they were.

 

“Yeah. He’s fine. Why?”

 

“Fr -” Elton gave Roger a searching look before continuing, “Freddie was always so...well. They were always in _one another’s pockets_. Obviously _very close_. And now he’s fled the country…”

 

 Roger almost burst out laughing but managed to swallow it down. Elton hadn’t been the first to think that about Freddie and John, Roger was sure, but he’d never had it said to his face before.

 

“John’s fine…” he checked they weren’t about to be overheard and leant in close to Elton to whisper. “He and Fred were in one another’s pockets, but I’m the one who’s in his knickers.”

 

 Elton blinked at him, and then burst out laughing. It attracted the attention of everyone in the control booth, Roger acting like he’d just made a dirty joke as Elton grabbed his arm and tried to get himself under control.

 

“Oh, my dear,” Elton said when his laughter had finally subsided, patting Roger on the arm as he let him go. “We do tend to flock together, don’t we...Although I never would have guessed it of you.”

 

“Yeah well,” Roger shrugged, glancing over at John who was looking at the engineer like he was an idiot. “It’s just been him, really.”

 

“Good looking, talented, smart, and you have a man. You get all the luck, Taylor,” Elton griped, a gleeful look in his eye as he stepped past Roger to breeze up to John. Roger had a moment of panic that Elton was about to say something about _them_ to him, but Elton had far too much tact for that. Instead he gave John a playful smack on the shoulder and declared, “Now listen here, Johnny. Go easy on my poor engineer or I’ll have to get Lizzy to give you a smack on the bum!”

 

 John smiled as everyone laughed, dissolving into giggles when Roger pretended to spit into his hand and wind it up ready to go.

 

 It was good to see John enjoying studio time again. Things had been so fraught in some of Queen’s last recording sessions, arguments exploding out of nowhere that even John used to get involved in, that there hadn’t been much mucking around. All the fun had been sucked out of it. But now, hearing laughter ring out in the control room, Roger felt as glad to be fiddling with levels and discussing takes as he had in the old days.

 

 He swiped a chair, rolling it over to the mixing desk and flopping down so he was sat just behind John and the engineer. “Here to keep this guy in line for you, Deaks,” he said, which made the engineer laugh nervously.

 

 Good, Roger though as he bumped his knee against John’s thigh. Fuck modesty. They were in a band that had some of the best musicality in the whole world. John had one of the best ears in the business and Roger wasn’t too bad either. They were going to bicker and disagree and move levels while the other wasn’t looking, and deliver the best track they could.

 

 

* ***** *

 

 

 With a grunt and a couple of groans Roger pushed himself up to swing his legs over the side of the bed. He blamed the struggle on the boozy dinner they'd the night before, not on the fact that the life of a drummer in a rock band might be starting to catch up with him.

 

 They'd gone out for a nice dinner (Johns treat -  Roger paying for everything just because that's what you _did_ with the people you were dating had been an argument that had rumbled around for most of 1981) and the wine had flowed freely. Not as freely as at some parties they'd been to in their time, but they were famous and a complimentary bottle of the finest Champagne had helped them both on their way to tipsy.

 

 John more so than Roger, but there was less of him to soak it all up.

 

 Roger sat on the edge of the mattress for a moment, head in his hands, and silently considered his legs that looked ghostly white in the darkness.

 

 After a while he straightened, peering over his shoulder at John who was still fast asleep. The covers had been shoved down and his t-shirt had ridden up his back while he slept, the slip of skin that was exposed to the dull light of the moon a much more enticing shade of pale than Roger was.

 

 Roger didn't reach out to touch despite knowing that it wouldn't wake John. Instead he got up and went for a piss, stumbling around the bathroom in the dark because he didn’t feel much like catching a glance of himself in the mirror.

 

 John had shifted closer to Roger’s side of the bed by the time he made it back to the bedroom, his face, more gentle than ever in sleep, turned towards the lingering warmth of Roger’s pillow. Usually he would be torn between looking at him for a moment longer and climbing right back into bed but tonight he couldn’t bare how lovely John looked so he turned away, stepping softly from the room to make his way downstairs.

 

 The kitchen looked barren in the dark, the clink of the glasses in the cabinet as he pulled one out cold and sharp. He ran the tap for a moment before filling the glass, the silence of the house pressing in on him after he turned it off.

 

 He filled the quiet by noisily gulping down some water, and then muttering to himself when the lighter from the cigarette carton he kept in the fruit bowl took a few shakes to get working. The end of the cigarette flared and crackled as he took a deep drag, the smoke sitting heavily in his lungs as he held it there until he was forced to breathe out.

 

 Roger leant his hip against the cold granite counter as he smoked, arm folded over his bare chest to try and keep the cool air of the kitchen at bay as he peered out of the window at the back garden.

 

 It was a nice, neat, narrow London garden. A rectangle of lawn with a patio at one end and some shrubs at the other that hid the garden shed. It was nice, neat, and practical, just like the sprawling garden of his house in Surrey.

 

 Roger liked being outside. He liked feeling the weather on his skin and the grass beneath his feet. When coming back from a tour or from being crowded into a studio for months he had always looked forward to the peaceful, lush, greenery that surrounded their homes. Even when the skies had been grey and the drizzle almost a constant he had just wanted to be out in the open air.

 

 Now it all looked sterile. Laid out to be convenient for a gardener to come in once a week while they were away. It didn’t look lived in and loved. The house didn’t feel lived in and loved.

 

Christ, they barely even knew their neighbours! They had lived in this house for nearly ten years and just the other day John had been asked when he had moved in because the woman who lived next door hadn’t seen a For Sale sign up.

 

 Since Freddie had fucked off Roger had felt like he’d been dropped into someone else’s life. He felt un-moored. Felt like he was being swept out to sea now that he didn’t have John to worry about quite so much anymore.

 

 He took a final drag on the cigarette and stubbed it out on the plug hole, holding the filter loosely in his hand as he stared up at the murky patch of sky between the trees and the tall, closely set Victorian houses.

 

“ _Fuck._ ”

 

 Roger dumped the remains of the cigarette in to the bin and strode into the hallway. He stood there, flexing his toes against the cool wooden floor as he glared at the yellow beams of light a lamppost was throwing over the walls. A thought had come to him, an idea, to make up some shit about needing to go down to Turo for his mum and just fucking off down to Cornwall so he could hide from all his melancholy for a bit.

 

 A scribbled note for John was stuck to the fridge and Roger was inthe garage with car keys in hand when all the fight just...drained out of him.

 

 He could say it was him mellowing with age. Or that it was John’s old electricians kit left open on their little work bench that tugged at his heartstrings. But really, for all his assertions that he was a selfish bastard and a right cunt, he’d never been cruel.

 

 And doing this to John would be so cruel he’d never be able to look himself in the eye again.

 

“You’re cold,” John complained when Roger slipped back in to bed, but instead of shifting away he moved closer. John wrapped his arms around him and pressed his cheek to Roger’s shoulder as if to lend him some of the sleepy warmth of his skin. He breathed deeply a few times before picking his head up to peer at Roger through the dark. “Yo’allright?”

 

“I’ll be okay.”

 

“Yeah?” John asked gently, sweeping his hand gently backwards and forwards over Roger’s stomach.

 

“Yeah I’ll be fine. Just got up for a potter and a smoke.”

 

 John made a hmph of acceptance and settled back down, relaxing by degrees until his body sagged all at once as he fell asleep against Roger.

 

 He expected to spend the next hour or so staring up at the ceiling in guilty self-reflection over what he had been so close to doing. But, it seemed, his conscious was clear. He hadn’t fled even though in the moment he had wanted to. Guilt didn’t consume him. Instead he let himself be lulled off to sleep by their peaceful home and John’s steady breathing.

 

* ***** *

 

 

 Roger had been beautiful long before he had been famous, so he was used to being watched.

 

 Getting stared at while backstage at someone else’s gig felt a little odd - everyone was here to see the artist on stage, not _him_ \- but usually he paid it little mind. He was in the biggest rock band in the _world_ , who’s failures would be other bands greatest hits, and he was attractive. Of course people would look.

 

 Yet, with Freddie recording a solo-album, Brian doing god knows what as a solo project, and Queen being on a ‘hiatus’, Roger felt like he was being gawked at right now. Would have said something about it to those doing the staring if John hadn’t been determined to get the best spots at the side of the stage.

 

 Someone amongst Madonna’s ‘people’ had heard they were in New York and had called to offer them backstage passes. The way John’s eyes had widened when Roger had said her name had him accepting even if he wasn’t so sure about going.

 

 So now here he was, watching the next big thing dancing about the stage.

 

 He decided not to feel old and bitter about it, John was having far too much fun for that. He was leaning forward on one of the equipment cases, one leg crossed behind the other and he jiggled the foot not holding his weight to the beat as he bopped his head to the music.

 

 He was a ridiculous slip of a man; ridiculous permed hair, ridiculous on trend clothes, ridiculous long legs and loose hips and a ridiculously lovely bum. A ridiculous narrow waist that fit perfectly between Roger’s hands.

 

 He took a quick drag on his cigarette followed by a sharp pull of beer, and went to lean next to John to get temptation out of his eyeline. The shadows of Madison Square Garden weren’t the place to fuck when it was someone _else's_ gig. It felt impolite.

 

The place to fuck, apparently, was up against the wall of their suite.

 

 John had known what had been on Roger’s mind. A flick of his eyes up to Roger while Madonna sung _Like A Virgin_ made that abundantly clear.

 

 They’d stayed barely a polite amount of time at the after party before heading to their hotel. They didn’t kiss in the car because the driver wasn’t a Queen driver and therefore was not trusted. Nor did they jump on one another in the lift because they all had cameras these days.

 

 But as soon as the door closed behind them Roger had shoved John against the wall, palms pressing into his hip bones as he kissed him like it was his last act on earth.

 

 John moaned loudly, grabbing fistfuls of Roger’s hair and throwing a leg around him to drag him closer.

 

 Hands found their way into clothing that hadn’t yet been discarded, John’s nails dragging over the soft bits of Roger’s torso as he grabbed whatever part of John he could. The both of them moaning when John squeezed Roger’s arse in both hands and his hips jerked forward to press John even harder against the wall.

 

“I want to fuck you,” Roger growled against John’s skin as he set about sucking a hickey on to his collarbone.

 

“I know,” John panted, arching against Roger and moaning so wonderfully he had to drag himself away. Roger kept his firm grip on John’s hips as he looked at him, his pink lips and flushed skin and the dark bruise at the curve of his collarbone. All things that made for a lovely sight but didn’t do a lot for Roger’s attempt to collect himself.

 

“We need lube but I can’t stand to let you go.”

 

 John brushed his smile over Roger’s mouth. “Sweet talker.”

 

 Roger tightened his hold on John’s hips, and then let him go, slipping his fingers through a belt loop to pull him along after him.

 

“Remember when I used to stash Vaseline and lube all over the place? So we could fuck when we liked?”

 

“Remember when you tried to put Vaseline on our rider?”

 

“Ha. Yeah.”

 

“And whenever there wasn’t anything in reach, I’d end up sucking your dick.”

 

“Mmm...I really should’ve been less prepared.”

 

 John laughed, whacking Roger on the shoulder with the back of his hand, “Git.”

 

 Roger tugged him closer, catching him around the waist to kiss him. “I always made it worth your while.

 

“Mmm, yes you did,” John agreed, fingers trailing down Roger’s sides. “Could make it worth your while now?”

 

“Don’t think I could take that hair bobbing about seriously enough to…”

 

 John bristled, trying to give Roger a smack but he caught his hands and pushed him into the wall by the bed. Roger held his wrists against the wall, squeezing just hard enough to keep them there as he slipped his thigh between John’s legs. “ _Bastard…_ ” John hissed, turning his face away when Roger tried to kiss him again, so he just sucked marks over his shoulders and traced the tendons in his neck with kisses until he felt John soften.

 

“I’m sorry…”

 

“I’m never sucking you off again.”

 

“All right,” Roger murmured, brushing his thumb over John’s bottom lip. “But can I still use my mouth on you?”

 

“Maybe,” he jutted his chin out, demanding a kiss that Roger was only too happy to give, rocking his thigh against John’s dick.

 

“Will you stay here?”

 

“I suppose.”

 

 He stayed where he was, shedding the last of his clothes by the time Roger came back from digging out the lube. He was stood with his shoulders pressed against the wall, his cocked hips jutting out in that way that was so unconsciously sexy Roger still wasn’t sure if it was on purpose or not.

 

“Turn around for me?” Roger asked as he crowded into Johns space, clicking the bottle open.

 

“Depends on if you’re going to turn around for me?”

 

“I was planning on it,” Roger promised, eyes raking over John when he turned and braced his forearms against the wall.

 

 He touched him everywhere. The outsides of his thighs, the curve of his ribcage, the dimples at the base of his spine. Roger slipped two fingers into him, laying kisses all over his shoulders as he curled and twisted them just how he knew John liked. His breathing picked up, a couple of gasps escaping John when he started to rock his hips, fucking himself on Roger’s hand.

 

 John set his feet further apart when Roger slipped his fingers out of him, twisting to give Roger a dirty, noisy kiss as he slicked up his cock. He sighed against Roger’s lips when his dick pressed into him, letting his head hang between his braced arms as he tensed all over before relaxing liked he always did. Roger loved it, loved him, loved how hot and tight and perfect he always felt. “God. You feel so good.”

 

“You say that every time.”

 

“Mmm, must mean it every time,” Roger said. He pressed his face into John’s neck for the first smooth, slow thrusts, straightening and holding onto his hips when he started fuck John just as hard as he knew he could take.

 

 It pushed John up onto his toes, every smack of Roger’s hips against his backside forcing a cry out of him that John tried to swallow down. But Roger knew how to get a noise out of him, sliding one hand off his hip to grab his dick.

 

“That’s it,” Roger said, placing a hand on John’s chest to pull him up more upright. “Let me hear you.”

 

 To which John just tipped his head back against Roger’s shoulder and said, “ _Fuck_.”

 

 John’s whole body was arched for Roger to fuck him at just the right angle, hands braced against the wall so he could push back against him. John had never been one to lay there and let himself be taken, and it made for fantastic sex. _Really_ fantastic sex.

 

 Roger let go of John’s dick to grab his hip again as he slowed a little. This wasn’t going to be a hard fuck, he decided. They were going to keep everyone in the surrounding rooms up half the night, and then in the morning Roger was going to spread his legs and wake them all up as he lost his mind while John made love to him.

 

 The position John was in would be a strain, Roger knew that, and as soon as he saw it start to show across his shoulders and tinge the breathless noises John was making he pulled out.

 

 John sagged, letting his hands slide slowly down the wall as he stretched out his back, Roger tracing his whipcord muscles as they shifted under his smooth skin. He gave John's hip a gentle nudge and he turned elegantly on the balls of his feet, dragging Roger in for a dirty kiss, one hand gently cupping Roger’s face whilst the other not so gently grabbed at his arse.  

 

 They managed to get across the room without tripping, Roger tipping John onto the bed and climbing right on after him. He pulled John’s hips into his lap as he sat back to look at him, trailing his fingers over the same soft pink flush that he’d been entranced by for longer than he’d care to say.

 

 John hooked his ankles together at the small of Roger's back and gave him a gentle tug. Roger dropped forward to hold himself up on one hand, licking into John's mouth as he slipped back into him in a long, slow thrust.

 

 John made a soft sound, gripping onto Roger’s biceps like he expected him to start fucking him hard again. There wasn’t that heat in Roger anymore; John spread out under him, willing and trusting, always did something to him. He propped himself up on his elbows as he rocked into John, setting a gentle rhythm and making an effort to be the kind of tender that had John shaking and gasping in Roger’s arms one moment and then writhing the next.

 

 Roger watched John when they weren’t trading soft kisses, the flutter of his lashes and how a particular change of angle had his breath catching. Revelling in the moments when John’s fingers were distracted from the lazy trails they were taking over Roger’s back, his whole body taken over by what Roger was doing to him.

 

Roger had no idea how long they made love like this, slow and gentle and like there was nothing else in the world that mattered as much as the other’s pleasure. It could have been ten minutes, it could have been half an hour. All he knew was that he didn’t really want to stop the gentle give and take, wanted to find out every delicate, desperate sound John could make.

 

 Marathon sex was all well and good, but lube didn’t last forever. John winced at a too dry thrust and Roger stopped to grab for the bottle, pausing when John tugged on Roger’s hair and asked if he wanted John to ride him.

 

“Yes,” Roger panted like there was any possibility of him _not_ agreeing to it, pulling out carefully and moving to lay with his shoulders against the headboard. He didn’t take his eyes from John who was laying where Roger had left him, legs still spread and bent at the knee, watching Roger take his time working more lube over his dick.

 

 Roger wiped his wet hand on his leg when eventually John got moving, holding onto his hips as he climbed smoothly into his lap.

 

“You’re so beautiful,” John breathed, kissing Rogers cheekbone, his eyelids, the curve of his ear and the line of his shoulder before he reached behind himself to guide Roger back into him.

 

 He tipped his head back when his arse met Roger’s lap, a smile just visible on his face when Roger couldn’t help but moan like he hadn’t just been screwing his brains out.

 

 “ _Shit,”_ Roger hissed when John began to gently circle his hips, his long fingers slipping over the backs of Roger’s hands that were holding onto his hips.

 

“You okay?”

 

“Sod me. Do what feels good. I want to see you take what you need.”

 

 A flush raced up John’s neck but he didn’t demure. He grabbed onto the headboard with first one hand, and then both, letting Roger encourage him to move harder, faster. “ _Ah, fuck. Roge…”_

 

“That’s it. _Christ_ ,” Roger tightened his grip on John’s hips when the bed started to squeak softly, thumbs sweeping over the soft skin of his abdomen. “Look at you.”

 

 John moaned and his hips stuttered, rhythm momentarily lost, and Roger planted his feet, pulling John down onto his dick as he bucked up into him. A loud, shuddering cry was punched out of John, Roger digging his nails into John’s arse when beautifully pale, stormy eyes flicked down to stare at him.

 

 John straightened, changing the angle of his hips so he could take more of Roger’s cock, rolling them hard and fast until Roger was grasping at him in an attempt not to cum.

 

 John took a hand off the headboard and cupped Rogers cheek, going back to a lazy roll of his hips as he leant down to kiss him.

 

“Take the piss out of my hair again,” John said against Roger’s lips, pressing his large hand down against Roger’s sternum. “ _I dare you_.”

 

“I might if it gets me a shag like this.”

 

 John smiled, bearing his hips down as he loomed over Roger. “Just you wait until it’s my turn to fuck you.”

 

 

***

 

 

 The Hi-Fi whirred and clicked as the cassette ran out. Roger flung out a hand, hitting buttons until the door flicked open and he fumbled the tape out. He twirled it between his fingers like it was a drumstick before shoving it back into the Hi-fi and snapping the door closed, hitting another range of buttons until the other side started playing quietly.

 

 He did all this while still reading his book, an old habit he had picked up from having to flip vinyl records, and he read until the end of the chapter before looking up.

 

 The sun was pouring in through the huge open windows that looked over the garden, warming Roger’s feet that were stretched out to rest in a great big patch of it. As Roger sat enjoying the view of the rose bushes a bee whirred in past the curtains. He watched it circle a moment and then bumble back out again, curiosity satisfied, and it brought a smile to Roger’s face.

 

 He glanced over John who was sprawled out on the sofa, wiggling the foot flung over the back to the music while his other foot tapped out the beat on the floor.

 

 Roger shook his head - John either sat like a prim little lady or like it was an invitation - and plucked a Malteser from the open packet in his lap to chuck at him.

 

 The first fell a little short, but the second one smacked into the back of the magazine John was reading and plopped down onto his stomach.

 

 John dropped the magazine onto his chest, peering at the Malteser before picking it up. He shot Roger a fake glare as he popped it into his mouth and set about rooting out the one that a had rolled under his hip.

 

 Roger laughed when John dug it out and help it up in triumph. He watched him eat that one too, pretending to catch the chocolate-y kiss John blew him and press it against his cheek.

 

 John smiled at him, the foot hanging off the back of the sofa wiggling independently of the music for a bit before he picked up his magazine again. Roger looked at him a beat longer, grabbing a handful of Maltesers to shove into his mouth as he turned back to his book.

 

 

* ***** *

 

 

“That was Miami on the phone.”

 

“Oh yeah,” Roger said, distracted as he peered into the top oven to check up on how the cheese on toast was crisping up. “What’d he want?”

 

“Freddie wants to talk to us.”

 

 Roger’s breath caught for an agonisingly long second before he muttered, “Does he now?”

 

“Jim said he sounded sincere…”

 

 Roger flicked the oven off, crossing his arms as he turned to face John who was stood on the other side of the island. He didn’t look shocked or upset, but he was fiddling nervously with a book of matches as he pulled Roger’s cigarettes closer to him.

 

“You want to give him a chance. Don’t tell me?” Roger demanded, carrying on when John just sighed. “After he threw us aside like we were his bloody backing group?

 

“I know, I know. But after everything he deserves…”

 

“Look, you’re his darling boy. You always were. I get that. But that doesn’t mean you have to…”

 

“He hurt you worse than all of us Roger,” John said as he pulled out a cigarette. “I know he did. You’ve always been close to him, I might be his _darling boy_ but he’s your best friend,” he lit the cigarette and threw the match into the sink. “Brian thinks he deserves to be heard out, I think he deserves a chance. If you don’t want to go, I’ll tell him whatever you want me to tell him. Even if it’s threats.”

 

 Roger pushed himself off the counter and held his hand out for John’s cigarette that he handed over. “I’ll think about it.”

 

“All right."

 

“And even if I go, it might just be to throttle him.”

 

“Okay.”

 

 Roger took a deep drag of the cigarette, blowing the smoke slowly towards the ceiling.

 

“I hate what he did. To you…”

 

“Roger…”

 

“No. It’s bad enough when I’m the one hurting you. I can’t stand other people doing it.”

 

”You tend to make things hurt less,” John said softly. “You always have.”

 

 Roger was of the, admittedly besotted, opinion that nothing in the world should hurt John. And if it did then Roger hadn’t done his job. John thought this was ridiculous, because it was, but always looked unbearably fond whenever he called Roger a sentimental fool.

 

“You make things better too. Ever since you shuffled into your audition looking like a rabbit in headlights.” Bringing that up just made Roger think of Freddie. How he had swept over to the shy young man and took him under his wing without a second thought. Freddie was like that, nurturing and kind and so full of love, it was why you couldn’t help but adore him. “I hate him for what he did to us, but I don't not love him. I don't want to go and talk to him because I know I'll forgive him, just like he would forgive me if I'd fucked up, you know?”

 

 John shrugged and leant his elbows on the counter. “I've never wanted to forgive anyone I've hated. But I can see that.”

 

“You forgave Bri for the whole Guitar Solo thing.”

 

“I didn't forgive him. I won.”

 

 Roger laughed, the both of them lapsing into silence as Roger smoked and John stared off into space.

 

“We haven't done bad for a band you thought was just something to do in your spare time, have we Deaks?”

 

“Not terribly. No.”

 

 Roger handed the end of the cigarette back to John, watching him finish it before asking. “How long did you think we'd last?”

 

“A week.”

 

“Dunno if I should be insulted or feel smug it lasted,” Roger said as he turned back to the oven.

 

“Smug. Definitely smug,” John said gently, and when Roger glanced over his shoulder he found that John was checking him out. Roger wiggled his arse and John blushed like they'd not been together for a bloody decade and a bit.

 

“I'm going to give you a massive hickey before we go to meet him,” Roger declared as he pulled the rack out from under the grill.

 

“No you won't!”

 

 

*******

 

 

 John had never been more content than he had been just before the real, big, world wide success had hit. When Queen was his three mates trying to make a passion for music pay the bills with him tagging along because he couldn’t face doing his Master’s just yet. All of them trying to find a path in life and ending up on the same motorway.

 

 He had never had the greatest memory, and that time existed in a haze on the other side of all the jumbled events of their success. But he could clearly recall a late spring afternoon, the weight of a summer heat just starting to creep into the air...

 

_...The four of them all squashed on to the little terrace out the back of John’s flat that looked over a car park and the uninspiring back end of a cinema._

 

_Brian took up the most room. He was possibly the tallest man that John had ever met, long legs going right underneath the little camp table they were sat around with his feet almost poking through the railing that circled John’s little bit of outside. Freddie seemed to take up just as much room, but that was more his presence than anything else. His personality beaming out so brightly John had to smile when he looked at him, lounging back on a dining chair, a drink held in one elegant hand and an artful scarf draped around his neck._

 

 _His cavalier attitude even while sitting was a good distraction for John who was sitting a little awkwardly in Roger’s lap. The only other person he had ever sat on despite his mother had been Freddie because, well -_ Freddie - _and although he knew it wasn't something a person couldn’t be bad at he still felt a bit ungainly._

 

_Roger had loudly bemoaned the lack of space as he had pulled John down into his lap as easily as Brian and Freddie did with their girlfriends. He had slung a secure arm around John’s waist and made a point of keeping all cigarette smoke away from him as he laughed and debated with the others. Acting like it was no big deal that John was perched on his thighs._

 

_Which it wasn’t._

 

 _They were together...sort of. Well, no. They_ were _together, Roger made it clear it wasn’t just sex, but John wasn’t about to expect exclusivity. Besides, being together with a man wasn’t the same as being together with a woman. Maybe. He didn’t really have any point of reference, nothing had lasted more than a night or two before Roger._

 

_John rested his elbow on Roger’s shoulder, glancing down when he looked up at him. The smile on Roger’s face came so naturally and was so earnest John couldn’t help slipping his arm around Roger‘s neck to settle in closer._

 

_Roger nodded his approval, kissing John’s chin as he put out his cigarette. He reached for his beer, giving John’s waist a squeeze as he dived straight back into the Not Argument he was currently having with Brian._

 

_Freddie tipped his face into the mid morning sunshine and sighed, “Isn’t sitting about on a sunny Sunday afternoon just delightful,” he took a elegant sip of his drink, making sure he had everyone’s attention before carrying on. “Look at us, all friends together, sitting about with our own thoughts and feelings in the sunshine. It’ll be just like when we’re all old men together. Decrepit, but Roger will still be a beautiful rascal, and Brian will still be my ethereal genius.”_

 

_“Too kind, Fred.”_

 

_“Kindess and truths are not mutually exclusive, Brian my dear. And Deaky!” Freddie reached over the table to tap his hand, “will still be unutterably pretty and viciously smart. I’ll still be divine, of course. And no-one will give a shit about our music but ourselves, but we’ll still have their money.”_

 

_“We’ll definitely have killed one another by then.”_

 

_“Oh hush, Deaky darling. We’re all bark and no bite. Even Roger,” Freddie waved his hand at him and laughed when Roger pretended to bite at his fingers, eyes sparking when John laughed. “I know you Roger! You’re a soft soul under all that drum kit chucking bluster.”_

 

_“Don’t say it so loud! I have a reputation!”_

 

_“Don’t you just,” Freddie said coolly, putting a cigarette to his mouth with a flourish and holding Roger’s gaze with a level look as he lit it. He kept up the facade until Roger flicked beer at him and then he burst out into raucous laughter that echoed back at them from the rough brickwork of the building opposite, as bright as the sunshine._

 

_“I think Deaky’s going to ruin your rep, Roge,” Brian said, pointing at how he was wrapped around John._

 

 _It wasn’t something they really addressed out loud as a band, Roger and John being a_ Them _. At first because they weren’t a Them and Freddie had been in the midst of the kind of Pearl Clutching Horror that got sternly worded letters written to the BBC. And then because...tact? The fact that it was legal but not widely acceptable? British awkwardness?_

 

_John glanced from Brian down to Roger who looked like he didn’t quite know how to react. Roger was gentle and kind, he cared deeply about things both large and small, and could fly off the handle about anything from international politics to a venue having the wrong acoustics. He always claimed John was unpredictable, (“I love not knowing what’s going to come out of your mouth next.” “Want to guess what’s going in to it next?” “Fucksake John I’m trying to be romantic”) but Roger always came at things from so many different angles._

 

_Roger turned his attention from Brian to John, moving the hand that had been resting on John’s waist to lay on his thigh, and smiled. “There are some thing’s worth taking a few dents for.”_

 

_“Was that another car metaphor?”_

 

_“Brian. I swear to God…”_

 

_“Does he dirty talk to you about greasy car parts, Deaky?”_

 

_“Yeah,” John agreed, Freddie losing it as Roger let out a squawk of betrayal._

 

_“I’d push you off my lap if I had the room!” Roger shouted, glaring at Brian right until John cupped his cheek and curled over to kiss him softly on the lips._

 

_Roger was smiling when he pulled back, Freddie making coo-ing noises while Brian just looked happy for them. He caught John’s eye and his toothy smile widened just a little before Roger finally pulled his attention away from John to spit a - lacking in venom -“Fuck you”, at him._

 

_“A dented reputation looks good on you, Roge.”_

 

_“Yes darling, you’re glowing more than usual. Bastard.”_

 

_“Everything looks good on me,” Roger said with a toss of his hair, giving John’s thigh a gentle squeeze..._

 

 

 Memories like that were the good ones. Memories of them as _friends_ that had got him through every fight and disagreement and band decision that he hated. Got him through Roger very nearly breaking his heart in ‘75. OR was it ‘76? Things all tended to mesh into one with their drawn out blaze across the sky.

 

A blaze that, despite everything, was still going. Queen just would not die. Much to the music’s press dismay, John had said to Brian once, which was probably what gave them all the spiteful determination they needed to _keep_ going.

 

 Even without men with clipboards telling them every hour just how many millions were watching, John would have been nervous. They’d played stadiums before, many times, but that was always to Queen fans. They were late additions to the Live Aid line up, out of the loop and out of practice and had never been cool.

 

 A million disaster situations started to run through his head. Crowding in closer and closer until he felt like he couldn’t breathe.

 

 He was aware of the clomp of Brian’s clogs coming to him. Then of Freddie’s warm voice at his ear, his familiar cologne tingling at John’s nose as what felt like the illusion of an arm wrapped around him.

 

 If he fell apart all this really would be a disaster. Queen pulls out of Live Aid and ruins their career all because of their fragile, nervous bassist.

 

 He knew it was Roger’s hand’s prying his apart, he’d know them anywhere. John let him take both of his hands in his, the familiar heart beat squeezing of his fingers making the darkness recede from John’s vision .

 

“It’s just a crowd, sweetheart,” Roger’s voice soothed. John looked up into his big blue eyes that didn’t hold an ounce of worry in them. Just that natural, not so quiet confidence that John had adored before he even knew what it meant to adore something. “We can win over any crowd. Deafen ‘em, blind ‘em, and then they’re ours.” Roger smiled when John stroked his thumbs over his knuckles, shuffling forward to crouch closer to John. “ _Ours_ , Deaky. Every shy, awkward, bad tempered, hurting, depressed, _ill-fitting_ person out there is ours. And we’re theirs for every single moment we’re on that stage.”

 

 John nodded, blushing when Roger gave him a chaste, if lingering, kiss in front of Ratty and...and fucking _David Bowie_ who had come over to see if he was okay.

 

 Roger sniggered at the look John gave him. His boyish smile was pure brilliant sunshine, and he kept his hold on John’s hand as he stood to shift the attention away from John and on to himself.

 

 The memories from before they were _Queen_ were bright and good and vital. Reminding John every day just _why_ he put himself through all this. But, as he nervously hopped from one foot to the other as their name echoed out over Wembley, Roger and Brian as steady as rocks while Freddie was about to vibrate out of his skin with adrenaline, maybe the memories from them _being_ Queen were just as important.

 

 Roger reached out to unconsciously trail his trail his fingertips over the back of John’s hand like he did before every gig. This time, however, he grasped John’s hand tightly in his own for a fraction of a second as he yelled over the din, “I love you! Let’s fucking do this!!”

 

  All the great times and the bad. The fucking awful times and the sublime moments. All of it was worth it. Every single second of it.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't remember where I read it, but Elton John did call Roger Taylor in to help with recording, he did turn up with Deaky in tow, and they did take over. Because that's how my boy's DOOOO.
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you all for your lovely comments, for reading, and for your support. Especially s0meday0neday for listening to my writing agonies and to Maddie who, as always, keeps me form looking like an idiot. 
> 
> I'm gonna miss this fic, and I hope you all enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.


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